


You & Me

by Danko_Kaji



Series: [356 Days] The Misadventures of Bilyana and Claude [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Gen, Mentioned Golden Deer Students (Fire Emblem), Original Name for F!Byleth, Pillow Fights, Pre-Timeskip, Sharing a Bed, Ship Tease, Tickle Fights, it might as well be titled the 'misadventures of Bilyana and Claude', tons and tons of shameless ship tease
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-09-26 02:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20382469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danko_Kaji/pseuds/Danko_Kaji
Summary: "You are the apple of my eye, Teach.""...Come again?"In which Sylvain transfers to the Golden Deer house to score with the professor, and Claude acts as the accelerant to the inevitable shitstorm that ensues.





	1. Apple Of My Eye

**Author's Note:**

> As hard as I tried to adjust to Byleth's default name, I can't bring myself to like it for the female Unit (I'm perfectly fine it for the male Unit, but I digress) so I took a gamble and went with an original name for her. Although I have yet to play the Golden Deer route personally, I'm spoiling myself rotten by watching it online. XD
> 
> Also, I am shamelessly inspired by Joe's Golden Deer playthrough that I had to take some of his highlights and weave it into the narrative.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

** _05/12 - Morning // Harpstring Moon_ **

Claude waltz into the classroom fifteen minutes before the first bell with Crestology textbook in hand, handwritten notes and dogeared ideas sandwiched in-between the pages, the well weathered spine tapping his shoulder to the tune of his jaunty humming. Usually among the first to arrive alongside the peacock Lorenz and night owl Marianne, he liked to start the day at dawn with his usual meditation and archery practice.

He does not expect to see a handsome red-haired nobleman chatting up a ruffled Lysithea, though. They are seated at the front aisle of seats closest to the blackboard where only the studious, serious, and blind flock, victim to the teacher’s expectations and tough love. Claude prefers the front aisle on the left hand side (Seiros bless his perfect vision), content with the angle in which he can spy everything that goes on in Bilyana’s vicinity.

Slowing his pace, Claude’s humming drifts to a curious silence.

...which one was this guy again?

The charming skirt-chaser of Blue Lions or the brilliant overachiever of Black Eagles? Hmm…

Only one way to find out. 

Claude saunters over to drop into his blind spot, delighting in his jolt of surprise as he claps his shoulder. Cue the boy blushing brighter than a cherry, annoyed by his intrusion, acting vindicated as if he just caught him in the middle of a lewd act.

Daydreaming of a certain young, stoic processor perhaps? Or buttering up a cute little child in hopes to groom her into a mature woman? He'd bet his secret egg nest of poisonous herbs on both.

"Hey there, _chéri~_!"

"What the― It's _ Sylvain―. _"

"How's the princess?"

He quirks an eyebrow. "You mean Dimitri?"

"I thought that’s what all his friends called him."

At the sound of Sylvain’s ill-suppressed laugh, Claude smirks.

_ Ha. Nailed it. _

So this basically confirms the newcomer as Sylvain, son and heir of House Gautier of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. So many damn capital letters of self-importance... Childhood friend of the Prince. Infamous lady killer. Red hot chili pepper hair, always spicy with the ladies. 

Not to be confused with Edelgard's too-bright-for-thine-eyes vassal and _ noblest of nobles _ rival, Ferdinand von Aegir. The carrot top head who's the cream of the crop, so sweet you can make carrot cake out of him.

He shouldn't have too much trouble telling them apart now.

"So what brings you to this side of greener pastures?"

"No reason, really." 

Sylvain busies himself with doodling in his logbook, feigning studious interest in the material left to fade on the blackboard from last Saturday. A stray hair strand falls in front of his face and he disguises the annoyed motion with a smooth sweep of his hand. "Manuela's nice and all, but she makes the subject matter too easy. I kinda wanted a challenge, you know? So I got to thinking, why not study under the master of strategy herself?"

Claude places his free hand on his hip, considering the boy before him. Before he can say anything witty, Bilyana strides into class, cold gaze fixed in front of her. Instead of watching her spectacularly headstrong entrance to nitpick all the minute changes in her silent, slender figure (which he mentally files away for later reference), Claude watches Sylvain instead, amused by the direction of his gaze and his intense appraisal. Very easy to do considering he stands towering over the boy who stays seated.

She throws a passing word their way without removing her gaze from her destination.

“Morning.”

“Top of the morning to ya, Teach!”

Claude’s voice chimes above the sparse, lame utterances of “good morning, professor.”

Unlike her usual routine of clearing out the board to write a new agenda or sweeping her eyes across the room to evaluate her students, she halts the moment she reaches her desk, peering down at the folder she brought in with curious intensity, her back to them. This allows for Sylvain to continue ogling her, particularly her curvaceous figure since her black tailcoat obscures her legs from behind. Lysithea rolls her eyes from his shameless expression despite her relief at Sylvain’s redirected attention. 

After enduring Seteth's endless complaints of her skimpy “impractical” merc attire, which challenged the monastery’s strict dress code, Bilyana swapped her patterned tights for thick black leggings that still manages to accentuate her willowy, toned thighs. She also set aside her heavy breastplate armor for a white, collared blouse and a brown leather corset belt that covers her stomach and navel. Claude does not mind whatever attire she wears― the Garreg Mach school uniform had the benefit of making her look younger than him, a short-lived daydream he entertained, but grew bored of quickly (a sentiment Bilyana must have agreed with, because she gave up on filling those shoes quickly)― so long as she wore clothing that suited her tastes.

She’s a natural beauty, that one. 

"I agree."

"Huh? What?"

Claude pantomimes an hourglass figure, topping it off with a wink and ‘OK’ hand symbol.

Sylvain brightens at that, and Claude stifles the gleeful grin on his face before it can incriminate his thoughts. 

_ Hook, line, and sinker. _

This boy must be thirsting for male companions to bask in the glory of beautiful women. With men such as the ever chivalrous Dimitri, brooding Dedue, pure cinnamon roll Ashe, and sword-sexual Felix (there's a gay euphemism to be had there), he couldn't blame him. 

_ This is gonna be too easy. _

"So you understand. You're a man of culture as well."

Claude scratches his cheek with the tip of his nail, followed by an effectual dart of his eyes, cuing that bashful smile. "Nah, I wouldn't go that far. I just… like to appreciate them when I get the chance, that’s all."

"Same." Sylvain chuckles, making sure to keep his voice low as he continues to watch her, chin propped on the palm of his hand. "Would you have figured she came up to me and asked to join her class?"

Claude blinks. Huh. Really.

Goaded by his moment of surprise, Sylvain continues on, smug. "I think she's into me. She's always watching me when I'm with the other girls."

_ Maybe you're a problem she wants to puzzle out. _

Claude knows her. Bilyana wants to see the good in people. From what fleeting glimpses Claude stole of Sylvain and his group of childhood friends, the Prince, anally-retentive Ingrid, and stronger-than-thou Felix, their turbulent friendship seems so… fragile and chaotic, layered by the complicated history shared between them and their familial alliances entrenched in nobility.

Claude stumbled upon Annette one time in the library puzzling over her assigned Magic homework when she just so happened to gush that Sylvain had a knack for critical thinking despite all casual appearances. After all, he solved a complex magic formula just by looking at it. Ingrid and Felix put up with him because they see something in him, not the hopeless cause Sylvain seems dead set on convincing people of.

Why else would his easy-going mask harden at the slightest mention of crests? Sylvain and Edelgard could share tea over the subject.

It's an intricate hypothesis, based partly on his instincts and sympathy, but mostly on his snooping and social skills. Claude feels confident he got him down pegged. After all, Sylvain paints a picture of a boy suffering from rich kid syndrome, escaping the responsibilities and expectations foisted upon him by chasing after women in frivolous pursuit.

A sad and simple truth, and a common affliction among Fódlanese noble children that Claude cannot wrap his head around.

"You think so?"

"Totally.” Sylvain grins, confident. “I'll show her I can be the perfect student. Just watch."

"You got Teach all figured out, huh? That's cute."

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you as much as I believe in the Goddess. She speaks to me in my wildest dreams. That's how I know I'm crazy."

"You think I'm crazy?"

"Hey, your words, not mine."

Claude snickers at the dumbfounded look on his face, relishing the annoyance that often comes from people who hate being outwitted.

"Claude."

He straightens at once.

Bilyana beckons him, not with a wave or a command, but her expectant eyes alone.

He walks over, magnetized by her subtle expression of panic.

"What's up, Teach?"

She hands over a thin packet of papers that he knows she must have toiled until the wee hours of morning to devise a decent lesson plan (he chastised her for trying too hard, after which she assured him she does need many hours to sleep anyway), and he proceeds to skim through it. Tactics review for the first hour, followed by an hour of Crestology, a fifteen minute break before an hour of Fódlanese History, an hour of Geography, an hour break for lunch, and the last three hours broken by Reasoning and Faith, another fifteen minute break, and finally combat strategy. 

He flips to the next page, an overview of the whole week until Saturday, with the last day being a half day slotted for assigned group activities. _ What? I’m paired with Lorenz for stable duty? Goddammit. _ This needs fixing. “Teach, may I?” She seems to understand without needing to ask, handing him the quill in his outstretched hand. 

“How about… you assign… Sylvain and I for stable duty instead?” Claude acts quick to dispel her chiding glare. “Look, I know what you’re gonna say: ‘you two nitwits need to learn to get along and forge your friendship through good old-fashioned blood, sweat, and tears,’ but let me just say this now. Sylvain’s a brave guy. He transferred to our class, knowing full well the backlash that would entail for his reputation. I just wanna help a guy out, make him feel more welcome.” Goaded by her inquisitive gaze, Claude presses on, leaning closer to murmur in her ear.

“Sylvain is the heir to house Gautier, a distinguished name loyal to the royal Blaiddyd crown. Meaning you managed to convince a Faergus noble to defect to the Leicester Alliance.” He pulls back to gauge the reaction on her face; lo and behold, her normally emotionless eyes are wide in shock. “I’m sure Dimitri doesn’t take it too personally. After all, he ain’t no Imperial princess. He’s a good guy with a heart of gold, but there’s no denying he might have felt a teeny bit betrayed by his friend’s change of heart."

“I… didn’t know…”

“Hey, how were you supposed to know? It’s not like you can memorize everyone’s name and crests and loyalties in a single month. What doesn’t help is that Jeralt didn’t teach you anything about all that stuff. Now here, I believe this is a blessing in disguise.”

“How so?”

“That means you won’t treat Sylvain, or me, or any one of us differently just for being the descendants of stuffy old war saints. I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but I want to let you know― I appreciate you just the way you are, Teach.” 

This earnest confession of his succeeds to catch her off guard, so much so that a touch of heat pinkens her cheeks. He grins. _ Cute~ _

“Truly?”

“When am I ever wrong, Teach?” He winks.

“Whenever you are not right. Which is all the time.”

“That hurts. I felt that.”

“Sure.”

Claude pouts, conflicted by the warm affection in her teasing gaze. Why does her strongest emotive responses always come at his own expense? Meanie. Returning his attention to the lesson plan, he schools the traitorous proud smile on his face. Tuesday and Thursday looks to be dedicated to weapon training, broken down by hourly rotation. Wednesday seems to be study hall and outdoor activities, such as riding or sky patrol… and Friday appears to be chock-full of pop quizzes. Oh, goodie.

On the bright side, being the teacher's pillar of moral support reaps some awesome benefits, such as scoping out future tests. With this knowledge, he can better micro manage his studying time. 

"...what do you think?" She finally asks, wary of his silence.

Claude shrugs, dropping his arm. "Not bad. Did Professor Manuela help you with it? Going by the neat cursive, it looks like her handwriting."

Now she hangs her head, as if ashamed by the fact. "I know it's something I am expected to do on my own. What's worse, I'm having you help me with it, a student…"

Claude stares, enraptured by her morose expression. So even a hardened, badass mercenary can feel inadequate. She looks so lost and uncertain, seeking guidance, that it brings out the older kid in him, further twisting the knife in his gut as guilt. Now he feels bad for wanting to watch her struggle like a borrowed cat stranded in an unknown alleyway just for kicks.

"Don't beat yourself up over it, Teach. You're new to the whole 'teaching younglings' scene. It's not your fault, really. But you know what?" He taps the top of her head beneath the bottom of the packet. This prompts her to look up, and he delights in that dim sliver of hope fizzling in her dark blue eyes. "This is as good a start as any. It might not _ feel _like you, but there's nothing wrong with trying it all out and seeing what works for you. You can take what you like and ignore the rest, and eventually you'll be able to write a whole new syllabus tailored to you, for us. Every day is a new day; they'll never be the same, so you gotta learn to adapt. But I'm pretty sure I don't need to tell you that, being a mercenary and all, right?"

After a long moment, Bilyana nods, soaking in his words. She looks calmer now, less tense; relieved, even, and Claude smiles.

"And hey, even if you mess up somewhere along the way, just remember you're not alone. After all, you’re one of us! You got me and the Golden Deer. We may not be the most harmonious bunch, but we don't relish the idea of seeing one of our own suffer. None of us will hesitate to lend a hand if you reach out to us."

For once, Claude does not experience the urge to fidget under her scrutinizing, blank eyes, touched by the depth of her trust smoldering in her eyes. She nods again, the corner of her lips curled in an imperceptible smile. He considers that a victory. It also reassures him that his emotionless, fearsome professor feels anxiety and self-doubt just like everyone else. She simply hides it better than most, or maybe she's always been incapable of expressing herself. Either way, Claude finds himself drawn to her despite his better judgement, intrigued by her enigma.

"You got this." He winks, pumping his fist. "When all else fails, just look at me." 

"I will. Thank you, Claude."

~

As Sylvain resigns himself to watching their entire exchange, he hides the bitter twist of his frown behind his palm.

~

Once class ends, Hilda and Raphael, true to the test of time, are the quickest to leave, allergic to academic imprisonment. Marianne and Ignatz shuffle behind those who race to the teacher's desk, allowing Lorenz and Lysithea to fight for Bilyana’s consultation. Leonie in particular shocks everyone, because she never spends one minute more in a stuffy, cold classroom if it meant missing out on her training. But because Bilyana happens to be the daughter of famous Captain Jeralt of the Knights of Seiros, Leonie considers her a rival. 

“Ugh, Lorenz! Move―.” 

“C’mon, you prune, you hog her_ everyday _.”

"Silence, plebeian. First come, first serve― Professor! I would like to ask you something."

Lysithea fumes in place. Leonie looks like she just swallowed a lemon. 

Claude shakes his head in sympathy.

Standing to organize his things, he takes his time. That guy never wastes a single second, always the first to rush to Bilyana's desk in order to beat him and other competition into dust. It's unfair to all the little people. Lysithea's so short, she will never outrun those noodle legs of his. Ignatz and Marianne in particular would never dare interrupt his pompous stride. He expects Leonie and Lorenz to spill blood at some point.

Maybe the battle will become so momentous that the Church will be forced to honor their deaths as a holiday, dubbing the occasion as The Giving of Thanks where nobility and common folk alike break bread and feast over the stupid actions of their violent predecessors. Claude can see it now. He will appoint Ignatz as the artist in charge of the portrait, and then he will hang the majestic, framed landscape of the two locked in fearsome battle astride handsome war mares right above the fireplace in his private quarters, just so he can admire their romanticized image during the coldest winters of his reign.

Noblemen and commoners celebrating past bloodshed by looking towards the future of their united country. Yes, that has a beautiful ring to it.

"The ladies have been giving me the cold shoulder, as late."

Reeled back to reality, Claude chuckles, disguising the motion behind a cough caught in his fist. 

_ Hey, I got an idea. It could be the haircut, pal. _

"I believe it is because they are intimidated by my noble presence."

_ Nope. It's the haircut. _

"How can I be more… accessible?"

_ You could get another haircut. _

Bilyana stares. Turning away from the blackboard to face him, she clasps her chin in deep thought. Possibly racking her brain for an impossibly polite way of calling him out for being a creep. After a long moment, she lifts her gaze to initiate eye contact, an impossible feat for anyone who can’t take Lorenz seriously. "...Talk more about their interests. That will ease the tension."

Lorenz hums, satisfied. "I see."

Oh, look. Bilyana giving people advice and Lorenz actually acknowledging another person’s opinion (especially one lacking noble status).

How wonders never cease. 

"Nah, you're just trying too hard. You don't want to look too desperate." Sylvain chimes in, sauntering over to join his fellow noble’s side, ever the expert on women and relationships. As if philandering could be called true experience.

Claude gravitates to Bilyana’s side, curiosity peaked. He can practically taste the first hints of chaos fizzling in the air and he wants to be front and center to watch it all unfold, eager to contribute.

"Sylvain, was it?" Lorenz turns to regard his new classmate, critical sharp eyes narrowed in recognition. "What an _ interesting _ observation.” Translation: _ I disagree, but go on. I’m listening just so I can prove you wrong at my first chance at rebuttal_. “Could we talk about it more over supper?"

"Ah. I would love to, but you see… I want to review the lesson with Teach here, so let’s write a rain check on that."

Claude lifts an eyebrow. It's only been one day, eight hours to be exact, and hotshot here already attached himself to the nickname. An affectionate nickname everyone avoids out of resignation for an unspoken rule.

_ This guy moves fast. And he's trying to piss me off. Not bad. But that's child's play. _

_ After all, Teach ain't that easy. _

Case in point, Bilyana stares at the offender, scrutinizing him.

Sylvain fidgets under the receiving end of her gaze, self-conscious. "...is it alright to call you that? I hope you don't mind. I thought it was something everyone here called you."

"...No.” She averts her eyes. “I'm not used to it. I still don't feel like a teacher, to be honest."

"Hey, if you're still feeling unsure about learning the ropes around here, maybe I can help you out. I'm sure you're pretty busy, but maybe we can squeeze some time in― just the two of us. That way, there won't be any distractions."

_ This guy. _

Claude clears his throat. Loudly.

Before he can steal a word in edgewise, Bilyana beats him to it.

"No, that's okay. I have Claude."

Silence freezes over, ice so thin Claude could have sworn he heard something break.

As much as he wants to kiss her for her brutal honesty, Claude decides to play at damage control. "Well, aren't you the epitome of grace and kindness, Sylvester."

"Syl_vain _―."

"Actually, Teach already scheduled sword training with me after class… you know, to better prepare me for my Lordship Certification exam. Isn't that right, B?"

Now _ this _garners a noticeable reaction out of her. Bilyana whips her head in his direction to peer up at him, her normally cool eyes hot with accusation. "...What did you call me?"

Claude sweats a little. _ Trial and error, don’t fail me now... _ The words rush out without warning, desperate to reel in the broken line. "Uh, I don't know. Because you wear black, you're a golden deer― it's like a coat of arms! Bzz!" He laughs, growing more anxious of her disheartening silence. "You also happen to like flowers and gardening, so I thought, wow, you're like a bumblebee! Often confused for a wasp, you look deadly, but you're actually misunderstood. In fact, deep down, you’re a soft, gentle creature. So, B."

This impromptu explanation succeeds to warm her, just a little. She still remains on guard, suspicious of his intent.

"...My father calls me that."

"Aw, that's adorable―."

"It feels… strange." Ouch. "Coming from you." Double ouch. "I'm not your little baby girl." 

_ Dear Sothis, Jeralt still calls you that? _ It takes all of his willpower not to break down then and there from tearful laughter. Sylvain looks to be suffering from the same hilarity, eyes moist with unshed tears while he hugs his stomach in hopes to control its belly aching. Lysithea disappears in a flash, not wanting to humiliate herself over laughing in front of her teacher. Ignatz giggles before he can stop himself, and Bilyana’s sharp look shuts him up quick, prompting him to politely excuse himself. Marianne follows suit, afraid to be caught in the crossfire of Claude’s scheming. Lorenz remains, morbid curiosity rooting him in place while Leonie snorts, unable to reconcile with the mental image of stern, scowling Jeralt babying his own emotionless child.

_ Teach is a daddy's girl. Oh my God I'm dying. _

"Ookay, then. No biggie. How about… Lya? Lya, Lya, Lya… Hmm…" Claude rolls the name around on his tongue, hoping that it would stick, seeking any hint of a reaction that maybe she would like it. ...Huh, nothing. Tough crowd. Still, it's kinda cute, but not in a childish sort of way. "Lya, Lya, Lya… Lya! What do you think, Teach? Do I pass?"

After a long, torturous moment, Bilyana finally relents with a sigh. "...It's okay. I don't mind."

Sylvain glares, put off by the loss. Claude grins so wide his cheeks ache.

"If that's the case, I want to call you that, too―."

"Okay, that's enough."

All three noblemen and the one ginger haired tomboy stare now, unblinking, shocked by the fact they succeeded to exhaust their taciturn professor's patience for the first time.

"Stop playing games. What is with you two?"

"Nothing." Claude shrugs, amused. "I'm just here waiting. Sylvi's the one―."

"For the last time, it's _ Sylvain. _"

"...and it's time for me to eat! I'm quite famished. Hey, Teach, I know it's not a good idea to eat a large, hefty meal before exercise, but why don't we push our date to later this evening? I heard trout is on the menu tonight and Dedue's cooking! I don't know about you, but I don't want Flayn demolishing our portions again. See ya later, Lya! I'll save you a spot!"

"Claude―."

And he bolts out of the room before Bilyana's rare expression of indignation anchors him there. Blowing up Hilda’s skirt as he whizzes past her in the tea gardens, Claude delights in her blush of anger and shrill, high-pitched drag of his name as Hilda forces herself to give chase. Now he does not need to look far for a dining partner in case Bilyana wants to chow down with other students.

All in good, harmless fun.


	2. Apple Of My Eye II

** _05/13 - Evening // Harpstring Moon_ **

A Lordship Certification exam?

Bilyana stares down at the document in hand, confused. _ So this was what Claude was talking about... _ Seteth had provided copies of the exam for each professor, reiterating the qualifications expected for them to succeed as well as providing the answer sheet, prompting Manuela and Hanneman to organize a mandatory "teacher conference" in one of the available boardrooms in the faculty building.

Why does such a flimsy paper constructed by the irrational standards of nobility determine the outcome of future country leaders? Most government officials have never dared to lay a foot on a battlefield, sequestered in their offices battling paperwork and policies instead of the bandits and bloodthirsty criminals terrorizing their citizens.

Bilyana much preferred evaluating practical combat skills and leadership on the battlefield.

Besides, how does anyone expect her, a mercenary never educated on the religious, political, and royal affairs that goes on in Fódlan, to educate Claude on his noble calling? He knows the history of Fódlan's millennia-old dynasty and mythos better than she does!

"...fessor. Professor!"

Bilyana barely flinches, switching her gaze to the beautiful brunette woman sitting across from her. Manuela regards her warmly, amused. "I love daydreaming as much as the next person, but there's a time and place for such things."

"This is no time to live your head in the clouds, Professor Bilyana. As you are our newest addition to the staff, and quite green in the ears when it comes to these matters, you'd best be paying attention." Hanneman grouses, deepening his stiff upper lip, gearing down his usual pleasantries to focus on business.

Bilyana glances down at the paper again, contemplating the requirements listed, citing the bullet points out loud in a soft monotone. "Sword proficiency must be met with a minimum of a grade D+, and aptitude for Authority at C+..."

"Hanneman and I have already reviewed our house leaders' grades in all their subjects since the start of the school year. Lady Edelgard and Prince Dimitri have already completed their sword certifications with flying colors, and maintain consistently high marks in all their subjects. But…"

"Claude, however, gives me cause for great concern."

Bilyana stares, waiting for an explanation that never comes. "What's wrong with Claude?"

"You have your student roster and logbook on hand, don't you? I think his scores speak for themselves. After all, grades are a reflection of one's work ethic."

She nods, propping open the leather bound notebook. She had penned Claude on the top of her list of students, prioritizing his house leader status, and shuffles through the pages until she reaches the current month. She proceeds to skim through the staggering amount of inconsistent, yet increasingly high numbers marked across the past week. The scores seemed more significant when compared to those of the past Pegasus Moon. What others see as scores skirting the bottom line of perfection, Bilyana only sees painstaking great strides. He particularly struggled in Fódlan history and geography, the former of which she struggles with more. In his case, he continues to confuse the names and their associated territories with others. Not only that, he mispronounces them on purpose to avoid the glaring fact. Claude once mixed up Sylvain's territory with Ferdinand's simply because they were both "ginger and gorgeous on the eyes, dazzling to any unfortunate enough to behold them with fragile, maiden hearts." His way with words almost tempted Bilyana to laugh. Almost.

"Well…" Manuela averts her eyes, uncertain of how to lay down the blunt truth, anchoring Bilyana's thoughts to the present. "We're simply worried he might not be fully prepared. He's young, so his level of mischief is understandable. However―"

"Edelgard and Dimitri have been preparing for their respective roles since they were old enough to walk." Hanneman cuts in, much to Manuela's indignation, his stern tone a stark contrast to her soft spot for the students. "Claude was only announced as the House Riegan heir barely two years ago. There are rumors that he might be an illegitimate heir sired by a foreigner. After all, Lord Riegan's only daughter disappeared to who knows where."

Bilyana hums, flicking her gaze downcast, peering down at his page as an excuse to look contemplative. She does not doubt Edelgard and Dimitri's ability to succeed, as they are sparkling examples of young royalty, proficient in their preferred weaponcraft, and possessing the natural charisma and leadership qualities expected of their unique positions. Claude, though… he likes to dance around the rules, exploiting his authority to mess with others. Even his superb archery dulls in comparison to his sharpened wit. Not exactly the noble image such a title would project, but… she prefers him that way. His flaws are not so far removed from his numerous quirks. She sees nothing wrong with him, only that he jokes a _ little_ too much and talks a little _ too much_, but she chalks that up to personal taste. Besides, he's earnest to a fault, his endless curiosity the whetstone to his intelligent mind. She enjoys his natural love for learning, his courage against failure.

But to doubt one's capabilities based on hearsay? The status of his mixed blood? How stupid. What does that accomplish? She ends up voicing her annoyance out loud, surprising herself.

"What does it matter?"

"I beg your pardon, Professor?"

"Questioning one's right to anything… What does it matter how he came to be here? So what if Edelgard and Dimitri have the advantage? It's not fair to judge anyone based on... gossip and personal assumptions. All I care about are results. Before that, nothing else matters."

Bilyana stands at once to leave, pushing her chair back in after barely remembering her manners. "I'll teach him the sword. Beyond that, I'll find others suitable to teach him what I can't."

~

Twilight swathes the monastery in golden hues by the time Bilyana exits the first floor of the faculty building, debating on her next course of action while her feet guide her across the northern courtyard. Very few students roam the grounds, most likely retired for the evening to enjoy their remaining free hours of repose. Either supping, studying, training, or shopping. Still, it feels odd to see more Seiros Knights in their silver armor than students in their black, gold-trimmed uniform, proving that she rarely ventures Garreg Mach past evening, preferring to seclude herself during weekday nights in the library or her private quarters.

Her mind drifts to Claude, wondering where he might be. Perhaps the mess hall, where he oft can be found hanging out with Hilda or hounding Annette for her nursery rhymes. Her feet start guiding her there, assured by that first choice. The library comes as a close second, home to his more quieter moments of studious solitude. She doubts he would be in the training grounds, since Claude prefers to train right after class to relieve the prolonged stiffness from his joints.

Would dinner time be a good opportunity to discuss a possible game plan for his Certification exam? Or should she wait until they are alone in a less distracting, noisy environment―

"MISTER CLAUDE VON RIEGAN. COME BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!"

Bilyana halts in her tracks, stricken by an instinctive fear. That voice… It can only be one person.

"Never~! Aha hahahaha~!"

Swerving around in search of their echoing, rapid footsteps, Bilyana catches Claude emerge from the corridor that splits between the bridge leading towards the cathedral and the faculty building, Seteth surprisingly close at his heels. The moment Claude spies her in his path, he breaks out into a wolfish grin, bounding ever faster. "Teach, save me!" He ducks behind her body like a squirrel would scamper up a tree, fleeing from the hound that chases him, clutching her arms in plea. "Seteth wants to kill me!"

"Now, see here, you m-miscreant―!" Seteth halts before them to keel over his knees, voice raspy and out of breath. Bilyana stares, fascinated by the purple coloring of his sweaty, livid face, which brings to mind a bloated red fruit about ready to burst. Seteth composes himself somewhat, snapping to attention sharper than a whip. "The Professor is not your mother! Face your elder with dignity befitting one of your noble station."

"But if I present to you my neck and dignity, I'll die."

"And for good reason!"

"Ack! Back, you demon! Stay back! Your kind is not welcomed in these holy grounds!"

Bilyana blinks, bewildered by this development. _What is going on?_

She must have blurted it out loud, because Seteth coughs to clear his throat, clearly unaccustomed to raising his voice for long periods of time above its natural volume. "_Your _ student crafted a no-good, ill-mannered prank that threatened to disgrace Lady Rhea in front of an entire boardroom full of her most important clients. He poured an entire bucket of honey― enough to drown an entire Duscur Grizzly in a fossilized tomb― before proceeding to suffocate her in pegasi _ feathers― _"

Bilyana attempts to imagine the madness, honey coating the usually serene and white archbishop in amber globs of sugar, before lifting her face towards the snowfall of pegasi feathers glazing her sticky body. She wonders how the holy woman reacted to such an inane prank. To her grudging surprise, she wishes she could have seen it.

"I thought Lady Rhea would appreciate a wardrobe upgrade." Claude peers over her shoulder to grin. "After all, her majestic beauty knows no equal. I simply wanted to depict her as the angel that she is. You should have seen it, Teach, Her Holiness was a sight for sore eyes―"

"Claude. As loathe as I am to admit this, you are to be the future leader of the House Riegan name, set to rule all of the Leicester Alliance. What kind of example do you think you are leading for your fellow countrymen by acting the fool?"

"A good one." He straightens, confident and cheeky in his claim, placing a hand on his chest. "I'm not your average Joe, Seteth. I've got it all figured out. After all, what's a leader without some fire-forged friends? I don't want to be the kind of guy who's built on a pedestal only to be broken later underneath all the weight. We're gonna be a house that supports each other, a country that stands no matter the weather or storm."

"It sounds like to me you want the people to love you. That's a pretty sentiment, an admirable ideal to strive for. However, you must face the reality. How do you expect the people to respect you when you never raise a disciplinary hand against them? After all, true discipline starts with the self. Do you want people to love you or fear you?"

"Why not both?" Claude shrugs, punctuating his next remark with a wink and charming smile. "I want people to be afraid of how much they love me."

"That's not―." Seteth reddens, frustrated. "You completely missed the point I was trying to make! Is this all just a joke to you? I grow weary of your intolerable jests!"

Bilyana steps aside so they form a loose triangle now, fascinated by the flow of conversation and their volley of retaliations as they trade wit for heat. Claude looks to be enjoying himself at Seteth's expense, and she watches them, basking in the electric energy between them. She holds no dislike or contempt for the man who seems intent on distrusting her since the day Rhea appointed her as an instructor, but for some reason... seeing Seteth express emotion outside his calm professional appearances stirs something in her. She doesn't know what, though. Maybe she can ask her father later. He always knew how to explain things to her. 

Eventually, Seteth pauses to sigh, disappointment etched onto his face.

"I'm starting to wonder if you are even worthy of carrying the crest you bear. Born under the blessings of the Star Dragon, your future legacy looks to be darker than the Fell Star itself. I should have known, given it all started with your uncle's untimely death."

Bilyana cocks her head, bemused by his choice of wording. Star Dragon? Fell Star? Is that supposed to be a poetic metaphor from the scriptures of Seiros? What is it supposed to mean? For some reason, people here like to wax incomprehensible poetry just to sound more sophisticated. Claude would know, though. She inclines her head towards him, about to ask when his silent expression stops her short. Liquid rage swirls in his emerald sharp eyes, extinguishing the light of his usual cheer. She stares, concerned by the drastic transformation.

"You understand, don't you? The time for jests and horseplay is over. Now is the time to start laying the groundwork for your future. Everything hinges on the quality of your training and education, so think about polishing your act now or else I may be forced to write to your grandfather, Lord Riegan."

"Yeah, whatever."

Bilyana blinks, stunned by a creeping, unpleasant sensation in her gut. 

Claude… is upset. What's worse, he opts not to argue, resigning to the verbal lashing. That's strange. Seteth never angered him before. Could it be… his words? Or the intent behind them? She continues to watch him, intrigued by the manner in which he averts his eyes, masking his hurt and resentment beneath a nonchalant air.

She doesn't like it. 

She never witnessed him express anger towards anything or anyone. He exudes such a positive aura that he takes everything in stride, always smiling, always joking, always equipped with the last word. She likes his smile. It may not be his true smile, usually drawn with the intent to disarm people, masking his ulterior motive, but she likes the look of a smile on his face best.

Watching Seteth now rip him apart piece by piece gives her that same unpleasant feeling as when Edelgard called him a coward or Lorenz deriding him for his "slovenly" behavior. She feels a slow rising heat in the pit of her stomach that boils to the surface, inspiring a fierce need to stand up in his defense.

"Well." Seteth crosses his arms, irritated by his attitude. "Since you have a habit of not listening, perhaps corporal punishment is in order―."

"Allow me." Bilyana blurts out, moving to stand between them so as to force Seteth's eyes on her. Good. She caught his attention. "I am his teacher. Therefore he falls under my responsibility."

Seteth stares, both startled and impressed by her sudden sense of initiative. After a long moment, he relents, exhaling through his nose. "Good. See to it that he learns. Good day to you, Professor."

She nods, unable to bring herself to return the sentiment for fear of exposing the hot brand steel of her tongue. Once Seteth pivots on his heel, walking back in the direction of the cathedral, they wait for his clipped footsteps to fade before Claude breaks the silence first.

He sighs, folding his arms behind his head to sway in place, his mischievous cheer deteriorated. "...so, what's the verdict?"

Bilyana stares, sensing the awkward air that hangs over him. During that whole exchange, Claude did not seem receptive to Seteth's harsh verbal lashing, instead choosing to withdraw the moment he knew he had lost the battle. He's been receptive to her critiques before during their in-class tutoring sessions, quick to brush off consolation. What makes this time any different? Because she had never seen this side of him before, she finds herself at a loss.

'Positive reinforcement…' That's something Manuela taught her when she first started here. Maybe now proves the time to use it.

"There is no punishment."

"Oh…" He blinks, caught off guard. "Really?"

She nods, amused by his wary expression. Of course the self-proclaimed schemer of her class would not trust the words of an adult at face value, and he shifts his weight on one foot now, placing his hand on his hip. His sharp green eyes regard her with suspicion, waiting for the punchline.

"So you lied to Seteth, then."

"Not exactly lying… It's just... I didn't agree with everything he said."

"What's there not to agree with? I am a troublemaker and irredeemable prankster through and through. What's worse, I got caught red-handed. Why shouldn't I be punished?"

"You're not stupid, Claude. You're not a child. You know better. I know you understand the consequences. You're intelligent, no matter what people assume."

He smiles, flattered, yet rueful. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm being serious."

"I shudder to think of a moment when you're not."

"Claude." Bilyana pauses, peering up at him, hurt by the implication in his scathing remarks. He does not trust her. Then again, when has she ever proven that she earned it? 

_ What do you really want to say to him? _

She ponders the soul piercing question Sothis whispers to her, and she closes her eyes, overwhelmed by the vulnerable truth she finds there.

_ You care an awful lot about him, considering his true nature. _

_ What is his true nature? _

"I don't mind your antics. If anything, I encourage it."

"Really."

"You… are young." Bilyana opens her eyes, scavenging the nerve to look him in the eye ― in which he immediately looks away, intimidated or uncomfortable, she does not know, but she wants to reach out to him before he retreats further inside himself. "You won't be young forever. Someday, you and your friends and classmates will return home and all become leaders in your own right, fulfilling your household legacy. I… envy you." Bilyana exhales, winded by that precursor of a confession, encouraged by his rapt silence to continue. "...I lived my whole life never really knowing what it felt like. To be a child, to have fun… It's not that I don't appreciate my father. I understand why we lived the life we had. I wouldn't turn back time to change anything. Even so... it's not the same as the fun and joy you and your friends share." 

She takes a moment to search for his eyes, wanting to anchor them back to her. They keep shifting back and forth, drawn to her words, a slave to his own curiosity, yet this only serves to encourage her. "I want to see you have fun. I also want to see you succeed. I know that whenever you act out, there's always a reason." 

Bilyana pauses to recall the little moments she caught Claude engaged with others. Recalls her favorite moments of him practicing archery with Ignatz, ruffling his neat hair after his first bullseye, letting Lorenz have the last word in a heated argument despite having the higher ground, helping Raphael with his studies and being patient when he's slow to grasp the answer. Always teasing Lysithea to the point of anger and then reconciling over cake, redirecting the hostile energy between Leonie and Lorenz into something more productive like sparring. Whenever he finds Marianne alone in the stables, he always joins her in grooming them.

She watches him always, drawn to his confident gait, the light in his eyes, his cheery voice.

"You treat Lysithea like a child, because she never spoils herself. You bother Marianne because you're afraid to leave her alone. You compete with Sylvain to motivate him to try harder, because you know he's insecure. Lorenz challenges you at every opportunity, yet you engage him with wit, not hostility. You're not a clown. You're everyone's leader."

Claude stares, speechless, touched by her words. "Teach…"

"...so don't let anyone talk you down like that―."

"Yeah, I get it." He relents, not unkind.

Bilyana senses the corners of her mouth lift in the shape of a small smile, mirroring his own. "Let's go to the training grounds. We need to look like I'm punishing you with extra weapon training."

"...ooor, or, we could ditch detention and have dinner instead! All that running around made me hungry. What say you, Teach?" His grin broadens at the thought of food, and she relaxes, falling into step beside him as he leads the way. This. This is the Claude she wants to see. "I'm thinking… Fried Pheasant, Derdriu-style?"

"Do you ever get tired of pheasant?" She quirks an eyebrow, amused, matching his longer strides with quicker steps. "You eat it every time it's on the menu."

"Never! That's like asking me if I ever get tired of meat. Totally inconceivable!"

~

Laughter chimes in the darkening twilight.

Edelgard slows to a stop, prompting Hubert to follow suit, "Lady Edelgard?" ignoring the curious call of her name as she watches the pair make their way through the colonnade, his energetic notes and her calmer dulcet tones unmistakable. 

"How can you not have a favorite? I refuse to believe that."

"When you're constantly on the road, you don't get to complain. Sometimes Father and I would go without a proper meal for days. We were forced to ration our provisions if game was scarce."

"Then you haven't lived until you've tried some of my special homestyle cooking. Now I ain't no Dedue or anything, but I'll whip you up something so good it'll send you straight into a food coma."

"Food coma?"

"Don't worry. I'll take care of class while you snooze away. You'll be our very own sleeping beauty of Garreg Mach."

"That's not what I'm worried about. Who will watch over you while I'm gone? Definitely not Hilda or Lorenz… and Edelgard and Dimitri would sooner be at each other's throats than spare you a second thought."

"You underestimate me, oh dear Teach. After all, I'm your shining pupil. What can go wrong?"

"Everything."

Their voices bounce to the cadence of their warm, teasing humor, festering the wound left ripped wide open by her unbidden contempt and disappointment. Why would a talented enigmatic individual the likes of Jeralt's own flesh and blood choose to side with a coward, an outsider, an illegitimate son? If Claude had not fled then into the forests of Remire Village, splintering from the group to scheme who knows what…

He would not be alive right now, smiling, laughing, acting as the insidious thorn in her side. To walk by her side, to breathe the same air as her, what twisted divine power gave him the right to monopolize her favor?

"Lady Edelgard, that boy is not worth one iota of your concern. If anything, von Riegan ought to count his blessings. These so called golden school days are but a passing fantasy…"

"...Yes. I apologize, Hubert. My eyes shall not wander again."

"Never apologize, Lady Edelgard."

Yes. She shall let them have their fun so long as she continues to play her part. 

A small mercy to spare on her bloodstained path to peace.


	3. Apple Of My Eye III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had initially wrote so much more for this, but I decided to cut it in half. I was quite impatient with myself, but I'm quite satisfied with it overall. I'm challenging myself to write a chapter for each day of the Fodlan calendar. Wish me luck, this is gonna be a long ride. XD
> 
> Have I ever mentioned my incurable weakness for bed sharing, ship tease, and platonic boy-girl relationships? I am in love with this entire thing. *hearts*

** _05/14 - Evening // Harpstring Moon_ **

“Claaaude~ Oh, there you are!”

Hilda pops in through the open doorway, wearing only a tantalizing white nightgown that draws the eyes. Sylvain certainly noticed her blessed endowments, because he looks up from the middle of their game to stare, eyes riveted on her floating, slender form as she skips inside. Claude takes advantage of his distraction to move pieces around, sliding his queen two spaces to the left, and his rook a little more to the bottom... Oh, yeah, those pesky pawns, he’ll move them each one space back…

Sylvain smacks his hand. “Ey, I saw that!”

“What?” Claude blinks up at him, feigning innocence. “What did I do? I didn’t do anything.”

“You moved the pieces around. Now you’re officially disqualified.”

Hilda plops down at his bedside, sidling up to Claude’s side in a half-embrace as her long loose pink hair tickles his bare feet. He leans into her, drawn to her heat, the ease of her affection, hints of lavender cloying and clinging to her body. She must have just returned from the bath house, a welcome diversion from his current losing streak.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything~” She says in a teasing lilt, completely unabashed. “I wanted your opinion on _ this_.” Holding out her exposed wrist, she allows him to cradle her hand and lift it to his nose, peering at his face. “...so, what do you think?”

He cringes, resisting the urge to sneeze. Ugh, so _strong_… “Are you transitioning? This is obviously meant for a man ten years older―.”

“_No_, silly. Boys everywhere would grieve for me― No, this is for my brother. Here, maybe it will smell better on you.” Hilda rolls up his right sleeve to his elbow before he can object, spritzing his wrist with the aforementioned bottle of cologne she had on hand, before lifting it to her face, taking a whiff. She hums in content, inhaling again. “Not bad… for a mutt like you.”

“Hey!” Claude pouts, indignation disrupted by the tickle of her nose. She’s lucky she’s cute.

“Let me smell.” Sylvain leans forward and snatches his wrist to pull it close, unable to restrain his curiosity. Taking a deep breath, he hums in approval. “Hey~ You have great taste, Hilda. Nice scent. Sharp, masculine. You can seduce a maiden to bed with this.”

“Exactly!” Hilda beams, resting her cheek on the back of Claude’s shoulder, playing with the fabric of his sleeve between the idle twist of her fingernails. “My brother is an old-fashioned, sweet dolt. He’s long past the age to marry and father’s growing impatient, so he wrote to me in secret hoping for my assistance on the matter of his chastity. After all, Holst tends to listen to me more than him. Maybe I can convince him to stop harping on me and start appreciating other women.”

“That’s what I call a man with a sister complex― What’re you doing?” Claude opts to glare, annoyed by the generous spritz of cologne she applies on his neck. This is what he gets for neglecting pompous high-collared shirts. “Are you trying to pimp me out?” 

“Oh shush. It gives you a more adult air. Goddess knows you need more help in that department.”

“And what is that supposed to mean? I am plenty mature, thank you very much―.”

“Desist with your tomfoolery at once!” Lorenz barges in, looking flamboyant in his frilly, puffy-sleeved nightshirt, the remnants of a cucumber facial mask dripping from his flat bangs. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” He jabs a finger to the mantle clock sitting on Sylvain’s counter. “Half past ten! Half. Past. Ten. Most of us are already retired for bed. Chop chop, good people… and ruffian.” He wrinkles his nose, sneering down at Claude with the fondness of a silverbred cat snubbing their new sibling.

Claude reciprocates his contempt with a baleful look of his own, whipping up a genial smile quicker than one can even blink. Arrogant little twat_._ “Why don’t you join us, fruitcake? I was just getting tired of losing.”

“Why, I never― I am _no mere_ fruitcake―.”

“So a special fruitcake?”

“I am a rose among ill-born weeds such as yourself!”

“Aw, c’mon, Lorenz. Don’t be like that.” Sylvain chimes in, hoping to diffuse the hostility escalating between them. “We were just playing chess. Would you care to be interested in a round? I am the undefeated champion in this monastery.”

Lorenz perks up, irritation forgotten. “Chess, you say? Yes, I am quite fond of the sport. No harm in a little recreation, I suppose… Certainly, my good sir! However, I must confess, I did not receive the impression you fancied such games of intellectual pursuit.”

“Now _that_ is the beauty of first impressions, my friend. They are never guaranteed to last.”

“I agree with the sentiment.”

“This sounds like fun! Can I watch? Although I must admit, I’m slow to grasp these kind of games…” Hilda works up a bashful smile, cuing up that flighty charm.

Claude snorts. That little minx. She made a fool out of him soon after they met over one year ago, introducing him to _ Sword, Strike, & Shield_, luring him into a false sense of security, before trouncing him without hesitation. In front of his own grandfather _ and _her older brother, Holst, the latter of which had gained the popular vote to inherit leadership of the Roundtable before Claude appeared to steal it away. His unwitting rival and martial superior. The humiliation still burns. 

Despite it all, her conniving nature and natural charm inspired him to polish up his own. Their unconventional friendship saved his hide on more than one occasion, especially in his day-to-day court life with the Leicester aristocracy. Fódlanese nobles harbor a penchant for betrayal, honing their honeyed words and secret poisons over the Almyran’s love for blades and fisticuffs. Two different battlefields, and Hilda Valentine of House Goneril quickly established herself as his greatest ally in the Goddess-obsessed west, sharing his distaste for blind religion and royal extremists.

“Sure! It’s always more fun with a crowd.”

“And my victory shall taste all the more sweeter with lovely spectators to bear witness."

“Oh yeah? You’re on, flower boy.”

"...Claude, you count as three-quarters of a citizen.”

“I don’t know how that works, but okay. I’ll take that over slavery with no citizenship.”

Hilda stands up at once to hop over to Sylvain’s side, mattress sinking beneath her feet as she makes room for the competitors in respect to the energized air, and plops down to recline on the wall so she can drape her bare legs across his lap. A power move, because his arms naturally fall around her knees, hugging them to his chest. Claude stares, unnerved by the ease of their skinship, how his thumb strokes her thigh. _ They sure look cozy… _ He decides that he wants in on some of that action, and Claude crawls over before Lorenz can shove him aside, lounging against the wall so he can rest his head on her lap.

She does not object, accustomed to his needier moments for affection. He never admits it out loud and she likes to tease him for being an attention hog (he blames his colorful parents for depriving him of kind, loving, gentle affection, wind spirits bless them), which in turn leads him to call her out on it. Being a spoiled rich girl herself, she had been coddled by the venerable men of her household since birth. It certainly warped her personality.

His thoughts frazzle to a content hum when Claude feels her manicured fingernails scratch his scalp. He closes his eyes despite himself, enjoying the way she brushes his hair. Aw man, this can put him to sleep easy… 

“Wow, your hair’s so soft, even though it’s tangly. What type of shampoo do you use?”

“...’don’t know. Whatever carrot top uses. He always shares whenever I ask.” Claude pauses to yawn, fighting to stay awake while watching the boys rearrange the pieces in their monochrome squares, setting up a new board. “Sylvain, I vote on you to win! You’re not allowed to lose. If by some poor chance Lorenz beats you, that means, by proxy, he beats _ me_. I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Silence. We require no comments from the peanut gallery.” Lorenz exclaims, moving first by rule of the white pieces, leading his pawns forward to open up a path for his bishop later. Claude would have gone for the knights first. They have proven to be super tricky and fun to use. Easily the most underestimated, knights are low on the priority list of termination compared to the fearsome queen. 

“Ferdinand? That boy’s a sucker. It’s like the word ‘no’ does not even exist in his dictionary.”

Claude chuckles. “Right? Bless his pure soul... Well, I like it. It smells like flowers. I don’t know what kind, though.”

“Well, be sure to ask him next time. It’s practically illegal for boys to have softer hair than girls.” Hilda fiddles with his braid, intrigued by his handiwork. Combing his hair out in search of longer strands, she begins to weave them into a second braid, then a third, humming along to her ministrations. “Now you’re officially a pegasus… a cute, pegasus pony princess...”

“...I’m not cute. I’m a wyvern. A motheraaaaaarrhh…” An uncontrollable yawn interrupts him, cutting him short, and then he smacks his lips, misty-eyed. “...ing wyvern, mph...” Normally he would have come up with a wittier comeback, but Hilda’s head scratches robs him of the ability to speak. That, and the sweet scent of lavender. Too saccharine for his liking, but it suits her, lulling men astray from rational thought.

Claude dozes off to the murmur of candid competition and Hilda’s girlish giggles.

~

Felix returns to the dormitory after exhausting himself at the training grounds, drying his damp hair with a towel from his recent bath. Spotting light emanating from Sylvain’s room at the end of the corridor, he slows to a stop, pensive.

Since Sylvain’s transfer to Bilyana’s class, no doubt charmed by the older woman’s elusive nature to consider her a challenge, that layabout had been avoiding him and Dimitri the whole week, particularly Ingrid, choosing to sup with others instead such as Claude and the Professor or his usual gaggle of girls. Felix does not pretend to hold grieves for his transparent defection, unequipped to preach the sanctity of loyalties, but it hurt to think Sylvain could not bring himself to be honest with him.

That fool always liked to fiddle behind a veil of frivolity. 

This time, Felix must be the one to initiate. The echo of laughter and conversation stops him short, however, and he creeps forward to lean on the open doorway, peering inside. All congregated on his bed, Sylvain and the Gloucester heir sit across from each other, engaged in a fierce game of chess while the Goneril girl shamelessly cuddles with both Sylvain and her house leader. Look at her, whoring herself between the three famous philanderers of the Officer's Academy... If only they befriended the likes of Dorothea, they would paint a perfect picture.

Felix looks on, scowling in disapproval, contempt withering his sharp glare. They laugh so easily, trade blows so effortlessly and without any edge to their jests. He senses a bitter heat rise to scorch his throat. Sylvain warms to Hilda’s flirtation in contrast to Ingrid’s frigid scolding. Lorenz rivals his love and enthusiasm for women, and so accepted his invitation to venture out into town yesterday, unlike the chaste Boar insistent on morality. And Claude, that schemer… 

He stands at the center of it all, arresting Sylvain in his gravity. It sickens him how he orbits around him. They cling to each other thicker than thieves, causing no end of grief for Seteth and their taciturn professor. Drawing obscene pictures on the blackboards for other classes to walk into the next morning, devolving into horseplay during weapons training, misdirecting their practice spells to blow up skirts and set clothes on fire, hiding Hanneman’s monocle and writing fake love letters between faculty members. 

Of course he would find those fools better company. Especially Claude. Always Claude.

Felix grits his teeth, incensed by the sight of his slumbering, guileless face, and pivots on his heel, stalking back to his room.


	4. Apple Of My Eye IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! I had been working on three different chapters/one-shots at once. Also, I had been waffling between random headcanons and transitional details until by the end I said f' it. I wanted to take a jab at physically conscious Claude over sexualized Claude, because wouldn't it be funny but kind of sad that he's got body image issues? Toxic masculinity is also a thing, so yeah. 
> 
> I actually wish I could polish this up a bit more, but I'm too impatient and sleep-deprived to care. XD
> 
> I hope this makes up for the wait!

** _05/15 - Morning // Harpstring Moon_**

Claude wakes up with his face trapped between a pair of creamy, smooth thighs, slowly suffocating to death. Not exactly the kind of ending he pictured for himself; a royal virgin at the tender age of seventeen. Hilda continues to sleep undisturbed, snuggling to his backside as he fights to extract himself from her vice grip. 

“...rduh. Hrduh!” He grinds out her name to no avail, frightened by her insane, monstrous strength. _ You’re killing me here! _Slapping her leg once, twice, he fights to pry her off until she loosens her grip, kicking Sylvain in the face as she stretches. Claude sucks in breath, inhaling desperate gasps for air, woozy from all the blood rushing to his head.

“Felix… Stop hitting me…” Sylvain grumbles, smacking his lips.

Claude blinks, groggy, surveying his surroundings. Lacquered chess pieces and a bent wooden board litter the mattress, now spilling off the edge as he attempts to crawl off the bed. Lithe like a cat, he strives not to wake Lorenz who’s splayed between Sylvain’s legs. Even when he tumbles to the floor, creating a loud noise from the impact, none of them wake.

Good. The next part will come easier.

Dragging his feet to Sylvain’s desk, he picks up a bottle of shaving cream and a feather quill left on the open pages of his half-written notes, smiling. Perfect.

He shakes the bottle until foam forms, pouring cream into Sylvain’s open palm, and then he makes fabulous work of Lorenz and Hilda’s face with ink marks, drawing fake eyelids and swirly lines for the latter, and beastly horns and a mustache for Lorenz that would make Hanneman jealous. And now for the final touch. Kneeling by his bedside, Claude tickles Sylvain’s nose with the feather tail of the quill, unable to contain his eager grin.

Sylvain sneezes, raising his cream-filled hand to smack his nose. “Blurgh! What the― Who―!” He coughs when he inhales some of it, sputtering. “Dammit, Claude!” His anger sets off a chain reaction; whereas Hilda proves the slowest to rise, being a heavy sleeper, blinking with a set of four eyes, Lorenz shoots upright, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“NO FATHER, I WILL NOT BED LORD RIEGAN! HE’S INCAPABLE OF BEARING MY CHILDREN!”

Wow. Their tumultuous relationship extends to that of his wet dreams. _ I’m disgusted, but intrigued. _ The nature of Lorenz’s subconscious can wait. Claude snatches the pillow from beneath Sylvain’s butt and proceeds to pulverize his smarmy face with it, evoking a feminine voice that squeals in horror. “Aiieee! No, Lorenz, I’m still a virgin―.”

“You… y-you… repugnant little swine― How dare you besmirch me even in my dreams!” Lorenz retaliates by stealing the pillow and striking back with a vengeance. “It appears that nowhere is sacred so long as you continue to draw breath!”

“Ack! Abuse! You’re an abusive husband! I call for a divorce―” SMACK. Claude reels, falling back on the carpet, seeing white, spotty stars dotting his vision. Lorenz had launched off the mattress like a man possessed and silenced him with a sharp _ thwack_ to the chest. Straddling his stomach now, Lorenz starts plowing through his arms, overpowering his only meager form of defense.

“I don’t know what backwater country conceived you, but divorce is not sanctioned in these blessed lands!”

“Oh, the inhumanity! I’m stuck with you for life! That’s like― a life sentence!"

“Boys! Boys―!”

“Lorenz! Mercy! I can’t― breathe―.”

“Good! If I―.” Smack. “Have to―.” Smack. “Look upon―.” Smack. “Your roguishly― handsome― face again―.” Smack smack smack. “I swear― Goddess help me―.” SMACK. “I will KILL YOU!”

“Dead.” Limp like a rag doll, Claude feigns unconsciousness.

“Boys~!” Hilda tumbles off the bed to bolt out the room, almost slamming into the doorframe in her hasty retreat. "Do you have any idea what time it is?! The Professor is going to kill us!"

“GUYS!” Sylvain chucks a chess piece at Lorenz’s head. “I hate to interrupt your romping, but we’re late for class! Get out! Get out get out _get out_―”

Lorenz jolts, struck by lightning. Claude freezes, breaking out into a cold sweat. He shoots upright only for Lorenz to shove him back down with a palm to his face. "Ow! _Lorenz_―" He leaps off him like a wound-up spring, and Claude scrambles to his feet, leaving Sylvain to begin dressing as he rushes to his room, hearing Lorenz bemoan his misfortune from next door. 

“Argh! Me? A noble late to his own lesson― The inhumanity! That one tally of tardiness shall forever stain my perfect attendance!”

Claude sheds off his blouse and pants, only to trip in the entanglement that snares around his ankles. Falling face first on the carpet, he groans in pain. “Holy Mother of Seiros… Where’s my damn uniform?” Filching his rumpled pants and yellow t-shirt from the ground, he pats down the wrinkles and whips his long coat on, fastening the knots as well as his signature yellow cape in place before shoving his boots on, impatience chafing at his hands. 

Stumbling to the corner of his mantle, he rushes to rinse his crusted face in the water basin, scrubbing his teeth, gurgling to wash the mint from his mouth, and spits into the urn, not even bothering to comb his hair as he snatches a book (hopefully relevant to class) on his way out. He collides into Sylvain the moment he enters the corridor, and they reel, clutching at each other in panic only to collapse entangled in each other.

“Claude! You’re in my way!”

“That’s my line! Move it!”

They scramble to collect their belongings and dash down the hall, leaping down each short flight of steps until they finally descend the main stairs. Cyril chooses to exit the greenhouse at that exact moment, delivering mulch and pegasus dung to the coordinator for the day when the boys barrel past him.

“Hey! Watch it!”

“Sorry―!”

“Outta the way, squirt!”

They race past the entire dormitory, cutting a sharp turn up the long flight of stone steps, taking a shortcut through the gardens behind the dining hall, before finally emerging from the colonnade to burst through the double doors. The sharp, loud echo reverberates across an empty classroom, and they stumble inside, breathless, surveying the room in confusion.

“Where is everyone…?”

“Wait, there’s something written on the board.”

Claude trails after Sylvain, reading the chalk upon the blackboard.

FOR THOSE WHO ARE LATE, RECONVENE IN THE INFIRMARY

MANDATORY PHYSICAL EXAMS 

Crap. His face falls in despair. It’s already been a quarter since his pre-registration? 

"_Yes_!” Sylvain pumps his arms, whooping for joy. “Free day! That’s what I’m talking about. I can’t wait for _the_ Manuela to give me a _ thorough _ examination, heh heh.”

Shoulders slumped in defeat, Claude trudges over to Bilyana’s desk and proceeds to collapse on top of it, banging his head on the cold hard surface. “Why? Why is life such a cruel mistress? They’re gonna poke and prod me like a maze rat…”

Grabbing him by the scruff of his collar, Sylvain twirls him into his one-armed embrace, dragging him along. "C'mon, Claude. Time's a wastin'!"

He groans with the energy of a soul departing from its body, and he disengages from Sylvain's hold before they even pass the northern courtyard, heading west in search of a nice, secluded glen to hide away and nap in. Or perhaps a nice, comfortable pile of hay in the stables, if he can bring himself to tolerate the smell. "Yeah... I'm not feeling this. Sorry, Sylvain. You go on without me."

"Hey, where’re you doing? The infirmary is _ that _way.”

“I’m ditching. See you!”

“It’s your loss!"

Claude debates whether or not to return to class after the physical exams. How long will it take? Probably an hour. Maybe in the meantime, he can grab some shut eye. He slows to a stop, thoughtful. Wait... Seteth always patrols Garreg Mach in the mornings. What if he expects ditchers to flee far? Maybe he ought to hide in plain sight, play reverse psychology. Claude reasons he can stay close to throw him off his trail. The gardens between the classrooms and mess hall are a good place to start, separated by a crosswalk of cobblestone and tall, clipped hedges, only accessible through black iron gates. Maybe he can tuck himself in one of the bushes, shade himself from the sun.

He changes direction and heads south, ducking through one of the black gates before Tomas can spot him, his bald face buried in some scroll or another. Once he hears his shuffling footsteps pass, receding into the distance, Claude relaxes, surveying the garden he snuck into. No tables or chairs, not even a gazebo, just a patch of grass and flower beds. It does not surprise him to find Linhardt here, cloud watching on the grass. His second favorite napping buddy. Joining him on the ground, Claude folds his arms behind his head, peering up at the lazy formation of clouds.

“You skipping, too?”

“Yup.” 

Linhardt succumbs to the urge to yawn, not even bothering to cover his mouth. Laziness happens to be infectious, because Claude yawns, too, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. Coming to an unspoken agreement, they relax to the flow of a nice, gentle breeze, feeling sleepier in the silence, of watching the same old blue sky stretch on forever while white clouds roll across in lazy droves. So bright and clear, a deep and endless blue... like Bilyana's glassy eyes. He yawns again, misty-eyed and content, dozing to the image of her face.

~

A shadow looms over him.

Claude stirs, chilled by a foreboding presence. Peeling an eye open, he sees Seteth towering above him with his arms crossed over his chest.

_Oh shit._ He bolts to his feet only to be snagged by the scruff of his collar, startled by the man's firm grip. “Why, if it isn’t Seteth!" Flashing him a grin, Claude throws his arms up in surrender. "Fancy meeting you here!”

Seteth sighs. “Do I dare ask...?”

Linhardt sits up, yawning again, resigned to his fate. “Well, that was nice while it lasted.”

~

Seteth shoves them inside the common room where the rest of the boys were ushered, his hands on the golden brass handles of the double doors. "See to it that you report to your professors. I shall not tolerate any unexcused absences. Do I make myself clear?" He glares at Claude in particular.

He grins, masking his fear behind a casual salute. "Sir, yes sir, Seteth sir!"

Seteth narrows his eyes to slits, unamused, and slams the doors shut. Everybody in the crowded room snaps to attention, startled by the harsh echo. Bilyana and Hanneman break away from mid-conversation to stare in their direction, and Claude freezes, averting his eyes, afraid to face her reprimanding, stony eyes. _Oh no, she's walking towards me. Tactical retreat..._ Linhardt slinks away first, ignoring Hubert's menacing aura as he gravitates to Caspar's side. The short boy simply laughs at his foiled attempt, almost sending Linhardt flying from the force of a hearty slap to his shoulder. _Traitor._

His eyes search for Dimitri, relieved to find him surrounded by Ashe and Dedue. Safer people. Before he can rush over, the doors swing open behind him and he jumps, dreading the sultry voice that accompanies her sudden entrance.

“Well, well, well. Look who the cat dragged in. Nice of you to join us. I’m just about done wrapping up the ladies of every house. Claude, you shall be the first among the boys. Be ready to strip for me.”

Wonderful.

“You sure know how to put a man on the spot, Ela.” Claude twirls around to whip up his best charming smile, only for Manuela to jab a manicured finger in his chest.

“Ah ah ah~ None of that sweet Ela business, young man. You weaseled out from the last exam, but not this time.”

“Drat.”

“Boys, you may all start heading to the boardroom. We shall start in ten minutes.”

Claude sighs when she stalks back out the hallway, considering his odds. Maybe he can convince a male nurse to perform on him, but then again, who can he trust with his personal information… They will draw his blood and study the potency of his Crest, among other things he fears may oust his Almyran bloodline. Fódlanese priests and physicians possess a much more advanced knowledge of healing compared to Almyran blood shamans. Maybe he ought to pretend being sick. Which poison would be most convincing? A fever-inducing one? A stomachache? Or perhaps one that could slow his heartbeat, calm his nerves? Did he remember to bring any―

“Claude.”

“Augh! Teach!" He jolts, ripped out of his thoughts, jerking around to face her. "Don’t sneak up on me like that! It’s bad for my delicate heart.”

She purses her lips, blue eyes sharpened a notch. “You’re late.”

“I know, I can explain―.”

“Are you okay?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’re never late. I was worried that something had happened.”

Touched by the depth of her concern, he softens. Usually people tend to suspect him of mischief or wrongdoing in his conspicuous absences, so to see someone express genuine concern for his well-being injects fuzzy feelings in his heart. He had nothing to be afraid of. Yeah._This actually... feels nice._ It takes him a moment to recollect himself, and he smiles, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Ah. Yeah. I’m okay. I just overslept, that’s all.”

“Oh. That’s normal, I suppose. I saw the others sneaking in, too.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. We had a sleepover in Sylvain’s room and we stayed up late playing games.”

“I see. Sounds like you had fun.” She acquiesces.

“I dare say, Professor, it was entirely Claude’s fault.” Lorenz pipes us, cutting between them, beseeching forgiveness while laying the blame on another. Claude rolls his eyes, annoyed by the sound of his voice. _Shut up, Lorenz. _“Trust me when I say this, I would never have been late otherwise. He had the nerve to mar my face with disparaging scribbles, forcing me to spend precious time washing my face. Let me tell you, ink does not clean easy.”

“Lorenz.” Bilyana turns to face him, her tone a tad short. “For the last time, it’s okay. I don’t dock points for tardiness, let alone keep count of absences. I assume that if someone chooses to skip class, they have a reason for it.”

“That’s rather… lenient of you, Professor, but if I may. Continue to spare _ certain _ individuals with the tendency to shirk their duties and they will develop the habit of abusing your trust. As a result, they will fall behind on their studies to the detriment of their classmates and themselves, leading to a terrible future―”

“I understand that. However, I am your teacher, not your parent. None of you are forced to attend my class. Everyone is old enough to understand the consequences. After all, your academic experience is shaped by how you choose to invest in it.”

Lorenz stares, winded by the wisdom in her blunt words to incur speechlessness. “Aptly put, Professor. You are correct in that regard, in which we must learn to apply ourselves on our own initiative. Yes, I see…”

Claude looks between the two, in awe of Bilyana’s uncanny ability to pacify the pompous Gloucester heir as well as respectfully put him in his place. He oughta take pointers. This temperament would surely serve him well against other Leicester nobles keen on challenging him in future council meetings.

“Pardon me for my insolence, Professor. I overstepped. I should not be telling you how to perform your job. I am your student, and clearly I still have much to learn, especially in regards to the field of authority.”

“Not at all, Lorenz. I don’t mind when students question my authority. If gives me the chance to improve myself. I’m still learning… so I appreciate the criticism.”

“I am honored that you would value my opinions as thus, Professor.” Lorenz places an earnest hand on his chest, bowing to emphasize his gratitude. And then he spares Claude a surreptitious glance, clearing his throat. “Claude.”

“Uh, yeah? What’s up?”

“I… rescind my previous complaint. You may be the type to ensnare others in your honey trap, but I have only myself to blame for not heeding my better judgement.”

He blinks, flabbergasted. Was that… supposed to be an apology? He wouldn't call it that, seeing as arrogance inflates his poorly-expressed good intent, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Don’t worry about it.”

Lorenz lifts his chin with a dignified sniff. “Well, now that we sorted out that unpleasant affair… I shall take my leave of you, Professor.”

Bilyana nods, and with that, Lorenz exits the common room, seeing as nearly everyone else already vacated it. Everyone except him, Bilyana, and Hanneman, who had already settled into an empty armchair, content to read his pocketbook while the girls started trickling in, their giggles and chitchat filling the silence. Hilda shoots him a baleful look, no doubt holding him in contempt for vandalizing her face earlier since he can no longer see any traces of ink. He wishes he could have seen it, her reaction to everyone's teasing.

“Pinch me, I must be dreaming. Lorenz? Apologizing to _ moi?”_

Bilyana peers up at him, amused. “Maybe if you treated Lorenz like a human being, you two could hold an actual civil conversation.”

He pretends to think about it, his brain already rejecting the notion. “...mm, nah. Ain’t gonna happen.”

~

After enduring frightening instruments he had never laid eyes on before, such as needles sucking his blood greedier than a mosquito and a stethoscope-thingy that probed his chest colder than her own clinical ministrations, Claude can finally rest easy. He fought to keep his shirt on and Manuela relented to his fussing, so long as he agreed to allow her to touch him. It's nice to know _ some _physicians cared about patient consent. Still, this kind of privacy only mattered in Fódlan, since he didn't want anyone to see and inquire upon his jagged white scar on his left side. Scars have stories to tell, and his were dangerous territory.

And yet, being in a room full of men eager to joust over the size of their muscles (amongst other things) must be a universal behavior, because the men back home were no different. Instead of wasting their breath with clever banter, they preferred raunchy, hands-on roasting. Regardless of the culture, Claude wanted no part in it, self-conscious of his own features. Too willowy and fair for the average boisterous Almyran, too rough and unkempt for the tailored Fódlanese. He already hated the fuzz growing on his chest, that cursed middle of too little and too much.

And dick sizes. Who cares about that? It's how you use it, not― 

Once she dismissed him, Claude snatched his coat and bolted out of there, wanting to run away from his self-depreciating thoughts. He had been doing so well, too. Sometimes the most random things set him off, and today― This whole day sucks. _At least the worst part is over._

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Once Manuela wrapped up everyone’s physical exam, she allowed for Hanneman and Bilyana to review their stats. Although there were a small handful of lazy and physically inept students in every class, the Golden Deers boasted the lowest average of accumulated scores in physical education. And so Bilyana proceeded to ditch her entire plan on weaponcraft for good old fashioned running laps. Twenty laps around the entire monastery. Claude wanted to die, but not so much as allergic-to-sweat-and-labor Hilda, or poor anemic Marianne and delicate little Ignatz, so he ought to rank himself lower on the misery scale.

Everyone retrieved their loungewear from the dormitory before reconvening at the courtyard outside class, performing warm-ups in pairs while Bilyana watched them all like a hawk. Sylvain kept ogling her in her own black loungewear, to Lysithea’s growing annoyance. Claude would have done the same, if hunger did not gnaw at his stomach. Leonie stole him for stretches and now he supports her back while she reaches for her toes. He sighs, exhausted out of his mind.

“Claude, don’t sigh like that. You’re affecting my energy.”

“I want to die. Don’t mind me.”

“Then let’s switch. You need this more than me.”

He sighs again, and swaps positions with her, sitting down to spread his legs out, bending forward in one effortless smooth motion to grasp his toes in his fingers. He feels the blood rushing in his limbs and sighs, this time appreciating the stretch. 

“Wow, you’re pretty flexible.”

“Thanks.” Normally he would be tempted to slip a sexual euphemism in there, but… Leonie could very well throttle him. 

“What’s your exercise routine?”

“Uh…” Crap. 

He engages in an Almyran martial art steeped in stamina, strength, and flexibility, as well as energy manipulation. If someone like Ferdinand or Felix caught onto it while Leonie practiced it, they would hound him for his secrets. There’s a reason why he never trains outside in the vicinity of others with the exception of his archery, preferring the fields outside Garreg Mach or training grounds before dawn light.

"It's a secret." He winks at her, and she rolls her eyes.

Bilyana sounds the whistle, and everyone breaks apart to stand, gathering into a loose circle. As they all await the call of another whistle, Hilda runs up to her, stalling her breath.

"Professor! Professor! I don't think I can do this after all... Twenty laps? That's a lot. I might keel over and die. I have to think about the baby."

Both Claude and Sylvain sputter in disbelief, restraining their snickers behind their fists while Lorenz gapes in horror, hoping desperately for a punchline to a terrible joke.

"What baby?"

"Me."

"Hilda. You're an adult. Start acting your age."

"Professor―!"

"If it makes you feel any better, I'll be running alongside all of you. We'll be suffering together."

"Easy for you to say, Professor. You have nerves of steel. You probably eat a bowl of whetstones for breakfast. But me, I'm delicate!"

"Enough whining. Let's go." _Tweee~_

Once everyone kicks off into a reluctant start, Claude waits for Hilda to jog past him before picking up the pace, reaching out to tug on her bouncing pigtail. "Nice try, Hilda. Maybe you ought to try seducing her instead."

"Shut up." She sulks, not in the mood for his teasing, slapping his hand away. "Why don't _you_ try seducing the Professor, since you seem so keen on the idea?"

"I think I'd rather watch Sylvain crash and burn. It's easier to learn from other's mistakes."

"So you admit to knowing you're going to fail?"

"I said no such thing."

They bicker for a full lap, intent on wearing the other down until they start concentrating on their breathing, enduring the burn of their aching muscles. This torturous exercise feels very familiar, though... Oh, right. Nader had put him through laps every morning of his combat training, pushing him past the limits of his stamina every time. Nothing new. Except he had been neglecting that particular part of his grueling regiment since he left Almyra over a year ago. It obviously shows, but only in his memory. No one else would hold him at such an impossibly high standard.

He passed by Lorenz and Sylvain a couple of times, both sweating buckets and looking worse than overcooked noodles. Noblemen are such pansies. Raphael and Leonie, though, they were the stars of the show, stealing the front in their self-absorbed competition. Bilyana goes without saying, her stoic expression broken only by her heavy, steady breathing. Lysithea had been the first to retire, denying her obviously frail constitution, shortly followed by Marianne and Ignatz who looked like they were regretting their life choices.

Imagine if their classes joined the Black Eagles and Blue Lions' rosters. The ratio would be enormous. 

_I can do it. If I keep pace, and... ignore my stupid stomach... I can do it. Guh, I'm so thirsty..._

He can probably do another three laps tops. Maybe. With Hilda, though, that’s being optimistic. Hearing Hilda bemoan her fate, falling further and further behind until she finally decided to give up, collapsing on the ground, he sighs, halting to keel over his knees and catch his breath. _Damn me and my conscious. _He huffs, trudging back to reach her, nearly tumbling to his knees as he gathers her limp body in his arms. “C’mon, Hilda. I don’t care if you’re faking it. Work with me here.”

She groans. “Goodbye, sweet, cruel world… Just leave me to waste away... Eek!” Squealing in surprise at his startling burst of strength, she wraps her arms around his neck, clutching his shoulders. “What are you doing?”

“You can whine later. Let’s just… get to the classroom first. I’ll drop you off there.”

“O-Okay…”

She peers up at him, spellbound. His face drips with sweat, his breathing laborious and his usually mischievous eyes hardened in determination. He smells nice, too, despite his gross level of exertion, a cloying, familiar, heady scent that still lingers from last night.

Claude cuts such a dashing, handsome figure, not unlike her own brother.

Suspicious of her silence, he glances down at her, unnerved by her dumbstruck gaze. “...What’s that look for?”

“N… No reason.” She ducks her blushing face into his shoulder― did it always feel this strong and safe― hoping to hide proof of her traitorous heart. She can’t be falling for this doof, right? Right.

“Goddess, you’re… heavier than you look…” He swears, his arms trembling to keep her upright. “Where do you pack all that fat?”

Something within her snaps, a distant loud roar that rises from her furious heart, and she blushes, scandalized by his words. “Ugh! Claude! You’re such a clod! I hate you!”

He blinks, furrowing his brow in confusion. “Well, my name is Claude, so…”

“Forget it. Let go of me!” She punches him in the face, which forces him to drop her, disoriented by the wallop she packed behind that fist. “Ow! You dropped me! How dare you?”

“You hit me first! What the hell, Hilda?”

“That’s because you’re a jerk!”

“That’s it. I’m officially rescinding my buddy privileges.”

He grabs her anyway, throwing her body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ignoring the incessant punches to his back as he races back to the courtyard. Black bleeds into his vision hot, and Claude squints, feeling nauseous. He finds it so hard to breathe all of a sudden. _Almost... there..._ He does not register the sensation of falling, nor the harsh impact to the ground, the echo of concerned voices flitting in the background.

~

When Claude finally comes to, he stirs, smacking his chapped lips. His whole body feels heavier than lead, his head throbbing. He groans, turning on his side so he can bury his face into his pillow, taking a long, deep breath. Hm. His room smells… different. Since when does his pillow smell like mint? Lifting his face, he drags himself to sit upright. Wait a minute, where are the crest books he left open on his bed? Or the poison bottles and ingredients on his mantle? This room feels smaller somehow, sparsely decorated…

“Oh. You’re finally awake.”

And someone else sits at his study. Claude squints, confused.

Bilyana turns in her seat and rises, still clad in her loungewear, walking over to sit down beside him on the edge of (his?) her bed. Brushing his damp bangs out of his eyes, she palms his forehead and checks his temperature. “You collapsed out there. I brought you to rest in my room since it was closer than the infirmary.”

Claude stares, bewildered by this development. Him, sleeping in her room, on her bed? Until it all came crashing back to him. Oh, right. He had been running the most grueling laps of his life, and some merciful bone in his body decided to spare Hilda from the same torture. He must have fainted at some point out of pure exhaustion, deprived of both restful sleep and food. Who carried him here? Raphael?

Bilyana leans forward, taking advantage of his stunned silence to wrap her hand around the crown of his head, touching her forehead to his. “Hm. You don’t seem to have a fever. That’s good.”

Claude blinks, tongue-tied, his brain scrambling for a coherent thought. She’s so close, just the sensation of her breaths breezing his face sends him in shock. 

“Breathe. Claude, you’re not breathing. Are you okay?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Your face is hot.”

“Nah, I’m just naturally hot.”

She hums, pensive, pulling back to study him. Normally this would have been the perfect opportunity to slip in a salacious remark, yet his funny bone decided to shut down. “I did notice that about you. Manuela said something about you having a high blood pressure.”

He nods for a lack of better things to say, his throat feeling parched. She must have noticed the motion of his throat, because she stands to fetch a tray from her desk, placing it gently on his lap. “Here. I grabbed you some soup and bread. I didn’t know what you liked to drink, so I chose water. Here. Let me slice you an apple.” She starts peeling it, the skin becoming a fine, long red ribbon that pools into a perfect spiral on her lap.

He spoons some of the yellow cream soup in his mouth, delighted by the taste that tickles his tongue. “Pheasant… I didn't know they put pheasant soup on the menu.”

“They don’t. I made it from the leftover stock they had on hand. I didn’t want you to eat too heavy while you were recovering, so...”

“Aw. Thanks, Teach. You really do care.” He chuckles, feeling some of his energy returning.

“Of course I do.”

“I know. It was a joke.”

“Oh. I need to get used to that…”

He hears her mumble that last part, upset over own inability to read the air, and he laughs, broth dribbling out of his lips before he can hope to staunch it. Fumbling for a napkin or handkerchief, he stills when Bilyana dabs his chin, unable to suppress his goofy smile. He does not know why he finds her pampering funny, but it is. Maybe because she rarely gives off the impression she likes to care for others.

“No laughing while you’re eating.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Also… you are dismissed from your lesson today. Ask your classmates for notes. You’ll have to make up for what you missed another day.”

“Mm-hmm.” He proceeds to consume his soup with gusto now, ripping into his bread.

“You should have told me you skipped breakfast.”

“Hey, it was― my fault― so― it’s on me―.” He gulps, wiping his chin behind his wrist, satiated. He sets the tray aside, swinging his legs to face forward, his hands balanced on the bed. “Are the others okay? Hilda and them?”

“Sylvain was out of shape, but he was fine. Hilda played it off, as usual. Lorenz applauded you for ‘not abandoning your fellow countryman.’”

“Pfft.” Claude snorts, amused by her monotone impression of Lorenz’s formal speech. “Nice to know I'm capable of common decency. I'm pretty sure if I collapsed, Lorenz would have just left me there to die.”

“You don't know that." She chides him, displeased by his joke. "Lorenz would have dragged you to safety regardless of his pride. Or maybe because of his pride... Well, at any rate, I gave you full points today. In battle, you will constantly be forced to make difficult decisions. There will be times you must weigh the value of your life over the lives of others. Today, you chose your fallen ally against the detriment to yourself. Consider that extra credit towards your citizenship.”

“Thanks, Teach, I don’t know what to say…” He begins the punchline to what he hopes might pass as a clever joke only to trail off from the receiving end of her proud gaze. She stabs the fine point of her knife into a peeled apple slice, holding it out to him. He grins, chomping down. “Aw, you spoil me.”

“And you reek.” She sighs, popping another into his eager mouth.

“Mrph!” He swallows after finishing chewing, pouting. “I don’t know if you know this, Teach, but sweaty people smell.”

“That’s not what I meant. Your… perfume.”

“My what― _oh!_ You mean― this?” His hand flies to his neck, feeling embarrassed. “That was―.”

“I know it’s none of my business what you do in your leisure time, but that’s not an excuse to oversleep or be late to class. Such distractions are…” She trails off, averting her eyes, struggling to find the words to express her disapproval.

Claude stares, surprised to learn that he does not like that expression. Why does the implication that she assumes he fooled around hurt? “It’s― It’s not what you think!"

“...Really.”

“Yeah, ask Sylvai―.” Wait, he isn't the most reliable source of information. “Or Hilda―.” Or her. “This cologne was a present for her brother, and she wanted my opinion on it. Honest. I wasn’t with any girl last night. It’s like what I said earlier, we were playing games in Sylvain’s room, me, Hilda, and Lorenz. Yeah, ask Lorenz. He can’t lie to secure his future prospects.” 

_ Wait, why am I being so defensive? _

Because her opinion of him matters. He feels vulnerable for wanting to seek it out.

Bilyana stares, silent for a long moment, and she averts her eyes, thoughtful. “That’s what I thought… Yes, it didn’t seem like you at all…” She exhales in relief, returning to her task of peeling apples, spearing one for herself to eat. At least she holds a higher opinion of him over Sylvain, since the latter acts within the realm of expectations. Nice to know he ranks higher than that horn dog. Claude stretches his arms, rolling his shoulder to ease the ache. 

“In any case, I won’t permit the use of cosmetics in my class―.”

“Good luck telling all the girls and Lorenz that―.”

“You especially. Cologne does suit you.”

He deadpans. “Thanks.”

“I prefer the way you naturally smell.” She stands with the tray in hand, placing it aside on her desk, oblivious to the flustered look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this whole chapter is a mess. I tried to squeeze too much into it and I don't know if I pulled it off smoothly. Maybe over time I shall spruce it up, but for now, I gotta convince myself to be satisfied.


	5. Apple Of My Eye V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I softcore ship Claude with some of the other girls...? XD You can't tell me Claude didn't have a thing with Hilda before arriving at Garreg Mach. I like the idea of Hilda being his first love/girlfriend (even if it's within the realm of flirtationship). Also, Petra is such a bae, I also love her with Claude. XD I love exploring their compatible culture dynamics. I wish Claude could have had support conversations with more of the Blue Lions (and Black Eagles).
> 
> I'm babbling. I loved writing this entire chapter. ^^
> 
> Edit: also, I changed the rating due to sexual themes, nudity, and swearing, but a lot more will eventually follow.

** _05/16 - Late Afternoon // Harpstring Moon _ **

Felix takes a break, frustrated by his increasing lack of focus. His eyes keep gravitating to them despite himself, lured by the sounds of their combat. Bilyana leads the offense, forcing Claude to keep up, blocking and parrying, dodging if he can risk the distance, hanging onto her every curt instruction. 

“Plant your feet. Focus on your center. Absorb the brunt of my strike as you block.”

The archer who likes to snipe from a distance, quick to run from confrontation, draws strength from her words, gritting his teeth as he nearly succeeds to stave the blow only for her to lock his blade with hers. Stuck at a standstill, his knees start to buckle under her unrelenting pressure, pivoting to swipe at her leg. Although he proves lighter on his feet, she somehow anticipates it, parrying him with a flick of her wrist and knocking him off balance.

“Ow…!” He scrapes his elbows hard on his way to the ground, enough to draw blood, but this does not deter him, picking himself back up before Bilyana can offer a hand. “How’d you do that? I thought for sure I was quicker.”

“I don’t wait to react. I suspected you would aim for my legs, to throw me off balance. That’s also just by knowing you.”

Claude scuffs his shoe with a sigh, rueful. “Does that mean I’ll always be at a disadvantage against you…?”

“You want to know the real trick?”

“What?”

“I watch for the shoulders.” She touches his shoulder blade as she says this, stepping closer to take a look at his scrapes. Faint, golden light glows from her fingertips, the simplest of healing magic seeping into his skin. Within seconds the shallow wounds close, and Claude grins, inspecting his elbows with gentle taps.

“You can always anticipate where your opponent’s body will move by the way they lead themselves. Be wary, though. Some will be aware of it and use it to their advantage, so also anticipate their feints.”

“Got it, Teach!”

“Again.” She walks away to create a respectful distance, facing him in her usual stance. “This time, you be the offense.”

He nods, readying his training sword. 

Felix takes a moment to study his stance. It’s decent, but he could afford to ground his feet better… Claude learned the wrist work quicker, but his arms swing too wide and his blows exert too much force. Many amateurs mistake force for true strength when in all actuality it's about energy properly channeled. Still, what impresses him most lies in his footwork, so nimble he can rival Petra and himself in dexterity.

His sword hand itches for a fight. 

He sees the opportunity when Bilyana succeeds to parry his sword, this time surprising him with a punch to his stomach.

“That’s… cheating!” He chokes out, winded by the blow.

She supports him against her shoulder, allowing him time to recover. “You should never expect your opponent to hold back. That can be the difference between life and death.” 

“Duly noted.” He groans, straightening to retrieve his dignity.

“You did good.” She peers up at him, touching his bicep. “You’re a quick learner. You might surpass me soon enough.”

“Careful now. If you keep laying on the praise thick, it’ll all go to my head.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I like it. Keep laying it on me.”

“Riegan.”

“Oh, hey, Felix. What’s up?”

“Care for a spar?”

Claude blinks, startled by his sudden intensity. “Are you sure? I’ve been training for almost an hour. It won't be much of a fair fight.”

“So have I. We’re at equal energy, so let’s go.”

“...Okay.” He shrugs, nonchalant, turning to smile at Bilyana. “You don’t mind, do ya Teach? You can finally witness the fruits of my labor!”

“Don’t overexert yourself.” She glances at Felix, extending the same courtesy. “You, too, Felix.”

“Unlike Riegan and Sylvain, I don’t need to be coddled.” He scoffs. “I know my limits, and I know how to push past them.”

Claude whistles, impressed by his boast. “That’s rather bold of you. I might have to take you up on that challenge.”

Bilyana walks away to give them space, her eyes expressionless, yet intent as she faces them, arms crossed. Claude smiles and waves at her, and Felix fails to suppress his snort. _ Fool._ He charges before Claude can prepare himself, stealing the preemptive strike. Panic flashes in his eyes and he throws his sword up at the last minute. Felix smirks, willing the power of his Crest to surge to his fingertips. No matter how fast he may be, his guards will always prove too weak to catch the brunt. 

The moment their dulled blades connect, Claude’s shatters from the impact, the force knocking him back to the ground. The splintered pieces cut into his arms and face, the bloodiest gash straight across his cheek. Felix straightens, smug, rolling his wrist to brandish his sword, waiting, watching. 

Claude forces himself onto his feet, wiping away the blood with the back of his wrist, all mirth gone from his furious expression. Despite the self-confident airs he projects, his hands tremble on the handle of his broken weapon. Casting it aside without a moment’s thought, he walks over to grab another from the rack, making his way back to center ground, easing into his stance.

“That look becomes you.” Felix sneers, swiping his blade, willing the crest to surge within him. “The look of a frightened deer.”

“Stop, you’re making me blush.” Claude forces the devilish smile on his face, a charming front to mask the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Never took you for the type to wax poetry. You really are a finely-dressed noble beneath all ruthless appearances.”

“Hmph.” Transparent, shallow words meant to disarm him. Does he excel at anything else, but chattering nonsense?

Felix allows him the courtesy to move first, yet he does not take the bait, content with watching him. He’s being cautious. Not that it would make any difference. He takes to circling him now, searching for an opening while Claude mimics his movement. Weary of this game, Felix dashes forward. Establishing the ferocity behind his strength, Felix made sure to instill the fear and hopelessness of blocking his strikes, therefore forcing his hand to dodge instead. He prepares to adjust his footwork to lead into the next swing, and thus extends his sword arm, building momentum.

Only for Claude to slide his right foot forward, slipping into the space of his chest with a smooth slip of his blade against his. No force or friction, only the precise amount of misdirection, manipulating the path of his lunge. And then he twirls to swipe his side, barely managing to cut into his stomach before Felix manages to jump aside in time to avoid the worst of it.

“What was that?” Felix exclaims in consternation, clutching his stomach. His speed winded him worse than the shallow pain.

“What else did you expect? You’re stronger than me _ and _ an aspiring swordmaster. I gotta change it up.”

He had never seen a man switch his fighting style completely and with such natural ease. The skillful parry contradicts Bilyana’s unrestrained power and the boar’s steadfast fencing. The Leicester Alliance prides itself on their lancecraft derived from its Faerghus roots, so where… Perhaps the answer lies in his education before his grandfather Lord Riegan made his legitimacy known. “I don’t recognize that technique. Who taught you?”

“Maybe if you beat me, I’ll feel inclined to tell you.”

“That was a fluke.” Felix scowls. “Your trickery won’t work on me twice.”

“You never know. I might just surprise you.” Claude smirks, steeling himself for the inevitable pain that will follow.

~

“Ow ow ow… My body aches all over…” Claude sighs, reclining on the stone bench, unwinding in the heat of the sauna. “I got aches inside my aches…”

“You were training with the Professor, correct?” Dimitri smiles, sitting across from him on the opposite bench, his pale face flushed red. Dedue sits beside him, his ever stalwart silent companion. They returned from their respective sparring session in the Knight’s Hall, therefore they had not been privy to Felix’s brutal beat down. His blue eyes drift to the numerous welts across his torso, arms, and legs. “I expected no less from the one whom they call the Ashen Demon. Frankly, I’m jealous.”

“Calm down there, princess. Teach had been nothing but gentle. It was your boy Felix who gave me a tough ride.” Ironic, considering Felix calls his friend the beast who craves blood. He really ought to rethink his nicknames.

“I see… My apologies. On behalf of my house mate, I shall confront him about his… lust for duels.” 

“It was nothing.” He waves him off, peering up at the ceiling. “He challenged me and I accepted, so that was my call. I had no reason to say no.”

“Still… I hope they heal in time for your mock battle with the Knights. It might affect your performance.”

“No use crying over spilt milk. I’m flattered you would worry over me so, though, dear Dimitri.” He grins, leaning forward to stretch his arms in front of him, before reclining again, masking his hisses of pain behind steady breaths. With Dimitri, his concern always seemed so genuine. He likes that about him, how he wears his heart on his sleeve. “But I’ll be fine. This is why it pays to be an archer.”

“Too true.” Dimitri chuckles, and comfortable silence settles, the trio content to bask in the sweltering heat. Claude sighs again, wishing he could just melt into a puddle of goop and forget about existence. Roam the world as a slime immune to weariness, pain, and hunger. He misses the heat of Almyra, Fódlan being too cold for his comfort, especially in their mountainous regions. Summer in this country feels like the end of winter in Almyra. 

For that reason, he makes it a point to visit the sauna at least once every other day to soak up the heat lacking in his life. Glancing at Dedue who sits tall and silent as a Saint’s statue, Claude wonders who would last longer between the two of them. From what he read in the regional books of Duscur, they were cloaked in heavy snowfall year round save for the summer, proving colder than even Faerghus.

Speaking of regional texts... that reminds him to visit the library and check out some books on the Adrestian Empire, particularly maps on the Brionac Plateau. Before he can will himself to stand up and call it a day, someone enters the sauna via the iron door, their towel knotted high above their ample chest. 

“Ah! Good evening, boys.”

At the unmistakable echo of a female voice, Claude casts a languid eye in Dimitri’s direction, entertained by the scarlet consternation whipped across his face.

“P-Petra! What’re you― This is―.”

“I have hearing that both men and women be sharing this space."

Dimitri stares at her (face) in horror, a scream trapped in the bowels of his soul. He opts to glare at Claude, blaming him for all of his misfortunes.

“What?” Claude throws his hands up in defense, feigning innocence. “You’re the one who followed me here.”

“Your Highness, I thought you knew.” Dedue casts more oil into the fire, igniting Dimitri’s shame into a roaring inferno, oblivious to his mortification. Petra walks past the boys to seat herself beside Claude, curious of the fair-skinned prince who looks like he wants to faint.

“Isn’t this the bestest? Relaxing in the sauna after a good training…”

“Bestest… isn’t a word…” Dimitri mumbles, clearing his throat. “P-Pardon me for my ignorance, Petra, but… are all women in Brigid like you?”

“What do you mean?” She looks up in the middle of unraveling her braids, threading idle fingers through her wild, thick hair. An innocent, sensual motion, like a water nymph bathing at the edge of a pond, bathed in the glow of moonlight. 

Claude fights to stifle the smile. Fódlanese men are so weak to the presence of naked women, it’s great.

He could always take it upon himself to enlighten Petra and spare Dimitri the culture shock, but... Where would be the fun in that?

“In Fódlan, men and women bathe separately.” Dedue steps in, impassive, also unaffected by her endowments. “It’s the same for other facilities, such as the sauna. Correct me if I’m wrong, Your Highness, but I heard that men and women wait until marriage to expose any naked part of their bodies. Even then, they only show their bodies to their partner.”

“Ah. I see… But I am also not understanding. Why do men and women wait a long time? Our nakedness― that should be our pride! Not shame! Tell me, Claude―” Turning towards him, she reaches for the knot of her towel. “Do I look shameful?”

Uh-oh. He reaches out by instinct, snatching her hand, yet the steam made their hands slippery, thus causing him to lose his grip. The towel drops to her thighs, and Claude blinks, greeted by the generous sight of her chest.

“Oh, wow. Your nipples are brown." 

_ Thud_.

“Your Highness!”

“Is he alright?” Petra peers down at the unconscious prince in worry, moving to assist only for Claude to hold her back by the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s got a delicate, maiden heart.”

Dedue hoists Dimitri up in a bridal carry, moving to exit the room, but not before fixing Petra a stony look. “Petra. Be careful. There’s nothing wrong with the way you’re acting, but you might mislead others. Claude can explain it better.”

She hangs her head, upset. “Okay…”

“It’s okay, Petra.” Claude consoles her once Dedue departs, sympathy compelling him to comfort her without his usual brand of humor. “I understand how you feel about it.”

“Truly? It bothers you not?”

“Well… it’s not that it doesn’t bother me. I guess you can say I’m used to it.”

“Oh? You see naked women all the time?”

“Now I wouldn’t exactly phrase it like that…” He chuckles, awkward. That sounded so wrong the way she worded it, especially if someone heard it out of context. “But yeah, back in my hometown. That was before I came to Derdriu, though, so it’s been awhile.”

“Ah. I see. So your home is very much like Brigid.”

“Yeah, it is, except it’s not on an island.”

Her bright eyes drop from his face to study his chest, and he blushes, self-conscious under her scrutiny. He made sure to tie the towel around his stomach to hide his scar, but it did risk the hem being short around his thighs. He acted quickly to cross his legs when Petra walked in, not expecting a girl to arrive before he left. She pokes his nipple, startling him. “Yours are brown, too.”

“Hey, that tickles.” He giggles, swatting her hand away. “So are Dedue’s. All the other guys have pink ones. Don’t they look strange? I can barely see them.”

“I agree! Don't they look funny?”

They break out into laughter, basking in their mutual giddiness. 

“Pink nipples on girls… They are very pretty.” Petra admits after a moment.

“Is that so?" He shrugs, practicing indifference. "I wouldn’t know. I only had my mom for reference.” 

“Your mother? She is born in Fódlan, yes? Your father is not?”

“No.” He pauses. Normally he would shut down any conversation that inevitably led to his parents and home life, but… This is Petra. He can trust her. They are fellow royals of their respective countries, after all. “He’s from another country. They actually met in the borderlands.”

“How wonderful! A man and woman, born from opposite sides, falling in love... I have been spending much thinking about the man I must be choosing someday. I must be thinking about my country, but… I also wish to be finding a man worthy of love. Or a woman. Grandfather does no splitting straws. He told me I may have both.”

“Ahh. So consorts.”

“Something like that. There are many kind and wonderful people in Fódlan. If I had to choose… I wouldn’t know who to take back with me.”

“If you take Edelgard, that’d be an act of war.” He laughs, his humor a touch dark. That would definitely be something to see, the future Queen of Brigid abducting the Emperor heiress.

“I admire Edelgard. I have much learning for her ways of ruling. But, if I had to say who the most beautiful woman is… Don’t you think Dorothea is best?”

“You’re not wrong." He muses. "Dorothea’s got that cool looking hat going for her.”

“Her hat?” Petra giggles. “I was talking about her eyes. They’re such a deep green… like jade. I get lost in them. Your eyes are beautiful, too. You two are like rivals dueling in my heart.” 

“Oh, stop. You’re making me blush. Your eyes are just as beautiful, dear Petra.” He winks at her. “They are warm and rich, like sweet red wine. I could drown in them forever.”

Her face warms, delighted by his compliment. “What about you, Claude?”

“What about me?”

“Who do you think is the most beautiful?”

“Wow, way to throw me on the spot. Hmm…” He wraps his hand around his chin, deep in thought― even though he already knew the answer. It overwhelms him how often he thinks about her even when they are apart. “Dorothea’s tough competition, but for me… It’s gotta be Teach.”

“Teach? Ah! The Professor.”

“I admit, Dorothea’s got a lot going for her. She’s feminine, beautiful, a talented singer and dancer, with a perfect sense for style, skilled in magic...” Pretty much Hilda’s rival in all those things, except for the magic part, instead boasting monstrous strength that leads him breathless (and a little frightened; he pities the idiot that breaks her heart). “But Bilyana, she’s true to her name. A demon on the battlefield, she’s like a force of nature. I’ve never seen anyone so confident, so powerful and graceful.”

“I see! So you like your women to be warriors.”

“I guess so. Didn’t really think about that." He trails off, contemplative. Ever since he watched his mother beat up his combat instructor over a disagreement, he dreamed about finding a woman who could strike fear in the hearts of any seasoned warrior, but be loving and gentle towards her own family. No wonder his father fell in love. He'd want a queen who could protect herself and her family, too. "That's not the only reason, though. She’s also caring and kind. Like she’s afraid to break you if you’re too sensitive. Many people think she’s ice cold and scary, but… I think it’s cool, how calm she is about everything. I also want to see her be more expressive, though. Can you imagine how she'd look if she smiled once and awhile?”

“You sound like you are in love with the Professor.” She peers at him in awe, smiling.

“No― no no no, I wouldn’t call it love.” Claude blanches, vindicated by his precocious feelings. He may feel many things towards the ex-mercenary who exceeds him by a good couple years, but it’s definitely not that. “Call it… intense admiration. And morbid curiosity. But that’s it.”

“Truly?”

“It’s hard to call it love when you know nothing about the person. She’s a mystery to me, so that’s why I want to know everything about her.”

“Not love, but… What did Dorothea call it… A crush?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“I see. If that is the case… Then I know my feelings for my friends are stronger than this ‘crush.’ No crush shall crush me. I shall be crushing it!”

Claude laughs. “I like the way you think, Petra.”

~

After Claude and Petra joined each other in the mixed bath house located down an outdoor corridor connecting the sauna, between the male and female facilities where half a dozen people were already present (just knights and monks who spared them an indifferent eye, rarely students bold enough to shed all their clothing), they helped scrub each other's back and washed each other's hair, keeping their voices low in respect to the solemn occupants. 

He missed this. He missed bathing with his cousins, missed traipsing the halls of his home in light clothes, enjoying the open air and warm seasons, missed the echoes of aimless chatter in his native tongue. Even though there were plenty of unpleasant, harsh memories to be had, they never dulled his sense of happiness. Such as his father’s warm humor, his mother’s kind, loving hands and annoying, relentless kisses. He missed his shrewd, fun-loving servants and his Obaba’s divine readings and endless words of wisdom. He missed Nader’s boisterous rough-housing, missed listening to his latest war stories. 

He missed the spices and the food; the wild wyverns and their nests of rocs; the scent of pine needles and the horses (not those fluffy war mares bred to survive the harshest winter; _ Almyran _ horses, sleek and white, true athletic steeds that dominate the sunlit plains surrounding the Golden City). 

He missed Almyra.

Being around Petra felt like a piece of home away from home. It left him nostalgic and aching.

They walked out feeling refreshed and airy, their wild hair toweled and damp, both dressed in casual clothes, a Brigidan purple tunic tied over her black skirt for her and a white, long-sleeved tunic and comfortable trousers for himself. Never short on laughter and conversation, they draw the attention of those most curious by their sheer volume. What fun those rumors are going to be, especially upon Dimitri’s waking. Once he escorted Petra back to her room on the first floor of the commoner’s suite, he lingered on the bottom steps to pull her hand in for a chaste kiss, pleased by her radiant smile.

“You’re such a gentleman, Claude. You learn Fódlan customs quickly.”

“I try.” He chuckles, bidding adieu with a charming smile, the library his destination. 

Once in his room with an armful of books, Claude organizes them into a pile on his desk and plucks the top one for reading, collapsing in bed, glad to finally lie down. Texts both marked and new surround him, and he leaves those untouched to begin perusing through an Adrestia regional book, his thumb wedged between the pages about the Brionac Plateau. His class will be engaging the Church’s soldiers in a mock battle there this Sunday, and he wants to develop his local knowledge. 

A lush and temperate climate full of forests and lakes. Located near the border with the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, the Brionac Plateau lies adjacent to the Viscounty of Nuvelle in the coast, the territory of Arundel (Edelgard’s House thru her matrilineal line), and the Western Church― all within the western territory of Adrestia. A number of fortifications have been built around the plateau due to past recent invasions, particularly during the Dagda and Brigid War. As a response to the Dagda-Brigid united force succeeding their landfall within the Nuvelle and Ochs territory (a loss that lead to their respective ruin), the Empire sought to fortify their Brionac Plateau against future seaward invasions. 

Even though the Adrestian Empire holds the Brigid princess captive as their reward for winning the war four years ago, forcibly removing their independence to grant them vassalage, they still do not trust the stability of their new alliance.

His thoughts drift away from terrain advantages and variables, and he lowers the book to his mouth, gazing up at the ceiling. Foreign invasions, vassal states, and royal heirs taken prisoner… Claude could easily imagine that sort of fate for himself. If the Leicester Alliance held an ounce of Adrestia’s military prowess, Almyra would have fallen eventually, too. Holst Goneril might even be the general to lead the counter invasion, conquering the mountains and the plains to break peace in light of their hard-earned victory. 

Which heir of Almyra’s royal bloodline would the Leicester Alliance have demanded? Uncle Khursh would have volunteered his youngest without a doubt. That man sired the most children between various women among the three brothers, regarding his sons and daughters as tokens in his tireless political gambits for power. Uncle Vasil, on the other hand, valued his only daughter, Ava, with the utmost of pride and joy. He loves her too much to ever be willing to part with her. Claude has no siblings of his own, but among all of his cousins, he’s the most politically valuable, being half-Fódlanese himself.

In another life, he could have been taken captive, forced into some Leicester noble house only to be groomed into an obedient soldier for their country, just like Petra… Nausea settles in the pit of his stomach, and he squeezes his eyes shut, striving to squelch that horrible feeling of fear and dread. He can’t imagine how Petra feels, feeling trapped and helpless in the land of her enemy, striving to prove her worth while harboring hate and resentment. Yet she still projects such kindness and diligence. How much of that is a mask for her own pain?

“Claude? Are you awake?”

“No.” By the time he lifts the book from his face, he grins, feigning drowsiness. “What’s up, Hilda?”

She hovers by his doorway, wearing another one of her pretty flower-patterned nightgowns, twiddling the strands of her loose hair. Instead of waltzing in like she usually does, she leans on the doorframe, looking thoughtful.

“Nothing.” She shrugs, nonchalant, trudging forward, hands twined at her back. “I was bored, and I didn’t feel like being alone.”

“That’s a mood. Don’t be giving it to me now. I need all the energy I can get to cook up my schemes for this week’s battle.” He does not move to welcome her in, content to remain in bed and continue reading.

She takes this as an invitation to join him, dropping in between his legs to lie down on top of him. For once she does not react to his jest, preferring to cuddle in silence. He adjusts himself to accommodate her, curling one arm around her waist while propping an elbow on her shoulder to hold the book above her head one-handed. He did not want to be alone either, entertaining morbid thoughts by himself, so he welcomes her company regardless. Yet his face warms, unused to quiet intimacy like this, the feel of her breasts pressing into his torso. He never minded whenever they indulged in public, but being alone like this tends to make his mind wander. 

They ease into comfortable silence despite his thudding heartbeat, and his eyes start to grow heavy, lulled by weariness. He sighs through his nose and drops his arm, laying his book aside, too tired to keep his eyes open. Before he can doze off, Hilda breaks the silence with a low murmur.

“Hey.”

He hums.

“Do you think… Never mind.”

Curiosity peaked, he nudges her. “What?”

She opts not to speak at first, raising a red flag. Hilda, the girl who hates awkward long silences. Embracing her fully, he comforts her with a light squeeze. “Is something bothering you? I’ll lend an ear.”

She shifts a little, indecisive. “Do you think I’ve been acting mean?”

“Mean? About what?”

“Almyrans.”

Claude freezes, shocked by her humble admission. How should he respond? Should he joke about it to mask his irritation or feed into her budding self-awareness? When first they met in the year they became fast friends, she said countless of hateful and stupid things about the ‘brutish’ and ‘violent’ Almyrans that sometimes he wished he could whip her ignorance with his own thoughts about the Fódlanese. 

But he never faulted her for it, because her father and brother conditioned that hate into her. He never faulted her family, because border skirmishes and fragile treaties were their only exposure to Almyrans, and this repeated throughout generations. It's nobody's fault, only the consequences of history.

“Well… What makes you say that?”

“I always thought Almyrans were barbaric. They crave the fight and always look for a reason to invade our land. They break so many treaties with us, so I thought they didn't care about peace or diplomacy, but… It’s not like I’ve ever seen them. Cyril’s the only one I’ve met, and he’s a kid. But not only is he a kid, he’s so… hardworking.”

“Oh?” Cyril, huh... 

“I never thought how an Almyran would think or feel about stuff outside of fighting. That maybe they have friends and family they love whom they want to protect, or dreams of their own… and maybe that’s why they’re always invading? Maybe they’re not happy in their own country.”

He had a lot to say on the matter, but maintains his silence. He never received the impression Almyrans were unhappy. But he cannot speak for the soldiers at the front lines or the multitude of villages and hamlets outside the capital city. Sure, there existed an Almyran king who wanted to conquer both the known world and uncharted territories beyond the sea (thus sparking the first recorded invasion written in Fódlanese history), but that desire for conquest calmed down in his line of descendants, existing as a strain for wanderlust. 

Claude must have inherited it, too, because curiosity still stokes his thirst for knowledge. Fortunately, he did not inherit his ancestor’s penchant for blood and war.

“I don’t know where I’m growing with this,” Hilda says, reeling him back to reality. “I just wanted to share it with you.”

“Yeah, I get you.”

“What do you think about Almyrans?”

“Honestly? I think discrimination is wrong in general. I don’t want to hate or judge anyone based on where they’re born. I feel that way about Brigid, Dagda, Duscur… All of those countries, not just Almyra.”

Hilda hums, thoughtful. “That’s... nice.”

“I mean, wouldn’t you rather everyone got along?”

He senses her move to lift her head, and he peers down at her, his heart racing from the sudden proximity of her face. Hilda clasps her hands over his collarbone, resting her chin on top of her twined fingers, her pretty smile matching her rosy eyes. “You know, back when you eagerly advocated for open trade in your first council meeting with Duke Riegan and all those stuffy nobles, you weren’t trying to show off. You really believe in all that equality stuff.”

“You caught me.” He brushes off her fond appraisal, feeling embarrassed. Not his brightest moment, considering Lord Gloucester looked as if he swallowed a chili pepper whole at the presence of his voice, scandalized by the mere action of him rejecting his proposal to bolster trade taxes.

“I think it’s cool. It’s always easier to listen to my brother and father about everything, but sometimes I wonder…” She trails off into a thoughtful pout, staring off into space. Dammit, she makes it difficult not to look at her lips. He feels her sweet breath breezing his face every time she speaks, bringing to mind the candies she likes to eat during teatime with Annette and Lysithea. 

“About what?” He gives in, his voice soft, fingers brushing the curve of her back.

“What an Almyran is really like. I wouldn’t mind dating one just to see the look on father’s face.” She giggles, stroking the line of his collarbone.

He can't deny the hilarious mental image, either. Consider the fact that if they married, they wouldn't be just the Duke and his duchess, two undisputed names of the Leicester Roundtable, but an Almyran prince and the blood of his worst enemy. Poetic irony at its finest. Their union would be beautiful in all its controversy. His parents would welcome her in all her contradictions with open arms while Hilda's family would slaughter him for stealing their treasure. It's almost romantic. “Well, you got Cyril. I think he’s as good a place to start as any. Plus he’s young. You can groom him to be the perfect Almyran boyfriend.”

“Ew, gross. No. He _ definitely _ doesn’t count.” Her pout deepens into a scowl. That confirms it. They must have crossed paths somewhere as a result of Hilda trying to filch her work onto him, and the little guy said something to upset her, cue this conversation about Almyrans.

“You never know.” He smirks. “He might be the exception.”

“No… I’d much rather have you.” She murmurs, smiling, poking his nose.

His heart flutters at that, and he swears. Internally. _Dammit, Hilda. You win this time_. This time, he doesn’t care.

They lock eyes, leaning in, and he reaches out to rein in her hair, curling his hand around her neck as their lips connect, drawing her close. She scoots higher to drape herself over him, caging his head in her arms, swathing him in her scent. She smells sweet, like the field of perennial flowers where they first met outside the Riegan estate. Someday he wants to return there and make sweet love to her between all the betonies. Just the thought alone excites him, festering his desire for her, and he breaks the kiss first, self-conscious. He knows she can feel it, because her thigh nestles in between his legs. "Um, sorry..."

Hilda blinks, confused at first, and then she giggles, her tone affectionate. "You're so cute. You know I don't mind."

She said that before, but he didn't believe her, thinking she only liked the idea because he will become Duke someday, elevating her status. Their families held high expectations for their friendship to turn matrimonial, after all. Yet moments like these assuage his doubts and insecurities, and his anxiety calms, leading him to lower his hand to stroke her cheek, overwhelmed by the affection flooding in his heart. She leans into his touch, a blush dusting her cheeks. They come back together, their kisses more heated, his touches growing bolder, her hand in his hair needier.

Someone knocks on his door frame, startling the two in mid-kiss. “Claude, may I borrow your― Oh.” He peers over Hilda’s shoulder to spot Edelgard frozen in his doorway, her eyes averted in shame and cheeks tinted pink. He rolls his eyes with a sigh, annoyed, breathing into her neck to ground himself. It had been too long since their last intimate moment and it felt too short. “M-My apologies. I did not mean to interrupt. Your door was open, so…”

Hilda rises with a noisy huff, flicking her hair back with an annoyed sweep of her arm before climbing off his bed, brushing past the tongue-tied princess with nary a polite word or sweet smile to lighten her brisk departure. Claude sits up with a sigh, lamenting her warmth already, one arm on his knee, hoping to stifle the stiffness in his pants soon. Ever since Edelgard’s visit to his House following his appearance, Hilda never took to her well. He wonders if something happened between them when he left them alone, keeping the frightening, dark, and creepy Hubert company. 

He would’ve simply chalked that up as a girl thing… if Hilda wasn’t the type to snub people for no good reason. 

“It’s okay.” His tingling lips disagree. “And how may I help you on this fine evening, princess?”

“Ah. Yes.” She clears her throat, composing herself. “I am in need of a Crestology book for my essay assignment due by the end of next week, and I heard from the librarian you checked it out. As well as a plethora of other books.” She glances at his organized mess of books on his bed, hints of disapproval in her polite voice. “If you are not using it, will you lend it to me?”

“That depends. Which one?” He stands up to stretch with his back to her, scratching the back of his head. “I have at least four different books on Crests.” 

“Genealogy of the Holy Crests. It was on Professor Hanneman’s list of recommendations.”

“I’m in the middle of reading that one. Give me a couple of days.”

“If that book is not high on your priority list, allow me to use that one in the interim while you read the others." 

“You make a really good point. I mean, I could always let you borrow it…" Feeling safe to present himself now, he turns around to face her, a hand on his hip, insolent smile ever present. "But what if I don’t want to?”

She narrows her eyes, annoyed. “Surely you can spare that one.”

“I’m still reading it, though.”

“You mean to tell me you’re reading a dozen texts at the same time?”

“I wouldn’t have checked them all out otherwise.”

“I can’t believe you…”

“What’s not to believe? I am a man thirsty for knowledge, and I don’t like to leave things half-finished.”

“I asked you nicely.”

“Congratulations. Do you want a cookie?”

Crimson heat flares across her scowling cheeks, and she hardens her eyes into a glare. “I need that book now and you possess the only copy. You clearly don’t need it as you obviously chose it to read in your leisure―.”

“Claude!” Petra appears from behind Edelgard, smiling― halting at the pinched look on her leader’s face. “Ah, um, I hope I’m not an interruption― I mean, interrupting…?”

“Hey, Petra!” He beams, grateful for her presence, the perfect chance to snub his rival leader. “It was nothing important. Did you need something?”

“Yes! I am in needing of a book you checking it― oh, that is, checked out? From the library. It is called Winter Myths and Ancient Traditions of Faerghus. Do you have?”

“Of course!” He wanders over to his bed, plucks the worn, beaten blue hardcover propped open in the middle of a chilling fairy tale and snaps it shut, waltzing back to hold it out to her. “Here ya go. Be careful with my bookmark.”

“You have my gratitude!” Petra beams, hugging it to her chest. “I’ll be sharing my favorite bloody parts!”

“I didn’t finish it, yet, so don’t go spoiling me.”

“Spoil…? As in your good meat?”

“Why, yes, I do consider myself a fine piece of meat, but no, that’s not what I meant.”

Edelgard sighs, palming her forehead in frustration. “Please don’t confuse the poor girl anymore than you already are.”

“Promise me you will be giving me an explaining… uh, explanation, next time. I am most curious!”

“Sure thing. Anything for you, Petra.” Claude winks at her.

Once Petra departs with a hearty wave, returning to her room, Edelgard crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes to slits. “You didn’t even ask her what she needed it for.”

“Cuz I didn’t have to.”

“Pray tell how my asking is of any consequence to you?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs, entertained by her growing irritation. “I just like ruffling your feathers.”

“The nerve of you―.”

“Claude.”

“What’s up, Dedue da doo da doo doo doo?” He grins up at the gentle giant of The Blue Lions, leaning against his door frame with a casual cross of his arms, ignoring Edelgard entirely. Again. From his periphery, he can see her ears flush redder than her clenched cheeks. “Is it about that gardening book I borrowed from Teach? Sorry. I should’ve asked you first.”

“That is fine.” He shakes his head, nonplussed. “I bought new seeds from the marketplace, but I’m unfamiliar with the flowers. You can continue to borrow it after tomorrow.”

Claude moves to pluck the book from his desk, a page open on foxglove flowers. He had been fixated on that one in particular, because of how similar it looked and functioned to the witch’s bells in the plains of Almyra. He actually wanted to go out and find some to experiment with, develop a way to isolate the poison and dilute its lethal symptoms, but that will have to wait. Returning to present the book out to him, he grins.

“No worries, Dedue. When I find you, next time I’ll ask you properly.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, Claude.” He bows his head, stoic face betraying nothing, and he turns to exit in the same direction as Petra.

“Really. You’re going to act juvenile and single me out every time?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about― Hey!”

“Enough.” She shoulders past him, allowing herself in. “I’m wasting my time with you. Where is it?”

This throws him off balance, and he blinks after her, astounded by her nerve, before recovering quickly, lunging forward to throw an arm out in front of her, blocking her path to his bed. When she still persists, shoving his arm aside, he snatches her waist and twirls her around, struggling to push her out the door when she plants her feet.

“Excuse me, this is _ my _room―.”

“And you’re not in dire need of that book―.”

“Well, you can’t have it. It’s mine―.”

“Unhand me this instant, or―.”

“Or what? Sick Hubert on me so he can stuff me into a coffin? I know he sleeps in one.”

“You take that back. He does not sleep in a coffin, and he― would do― no such thing―! Desist at once before I hit you!”

“No! Look at his face and tell me he hasn’t killed a man―.”

At the sound of someone clearing their throat, the scuffling pair freeze, breaking apart once they notice Bilyana standing inside his doorway, her arms crossed in front of her sleeveless turtleneck. She cuts a frightening, stern image, vindicating them both with a few choice of words. “It’s officially past curfew.”

“Don’t you worry, Professor. I was just leaving.” Edelgard recomposes herself, smoothing her hair back with a haughty sweep of her arm.

“Why are you two fighting?”

“No reason.” Claude clamps his mouth shut, striving not to cave under her inquisitive look. It’s impossible, and he stutters as a result of his anger. “It’s stupid― She barged into my room after I wouldn’t let her borrow a book.”

“Do you own it?”

“No. Kind of.” He falters, relenting. “I checked it out from the library.”

“Then it’s yours to do whatever you want until the deadline.”

Edelgard grits her teeth, annoyed by her valid point. “Professor. If you haven’t noticed the current state of his room, he obviously has plenty of other books to read in his leisure. I happen to need that Crestology book for homework.”

“Even so. You can either ask to share it or check out another book relevant to your assignment.”

Perceiving her loss, Edelgard scowls, wounded. “Understood. Pardon my intrusion, then.” Departing in cold farewell, she returns to her room, the harsh slam of her door reverberating across the narrow hallway.

Awkward silence settles, and Claude blinks, still in disbelief. He won an argument for once; in the presence of a teacher, no less. He had fully expected her to side with the princess for damage control, forcing him to play nice in the name of compromise. Yet she so deftly took his side all the while being unflinchingly objective about it. 

Claude calms down enough to realize how silly he acted. “Sorry you had to walk into that. It was childish―.”

“Fighting isn’t childish.”

“Uh… The reason was? I know I could’ve easily lent it to her. It was no skin off my back, but I wanted to rile her a little.”

“You like teasing her a lot, I noticed.” She pauses, thoughtful. “Do you like her?”

“What― _ Gods, no_. That is horrifying.”

“Is it really?”

“_Yes. _”

Bilyana stares, unconvinced. “That’s a shame. When I first met you three, I received the impression you got along.”

“In what world? Okay, I’ll admit, Dimitri is a sweetheart, and I will protect him til my dying breath, but Edelgard― nuh-uh, nope, she’s my antithesis. Can’t do it.”

“Antithesis? What does that even mean?”

“Good question, Teach.”

He refuses to elaborate, afraid that he said too much. 

Respecting his silence, she relents, relaxing her stance. “I know I said it’s past curfew, but there’s another reason why I’m here.”

“Oh yeah?” Claude quirks an eyebrow, curious. Spying the perfect opportunity for mayhem, he saunters over until they stand a few inches apart and drapes his arm over the door frame to lean in close, charming smile in place. “What brings you to my room at this hour? Having trouble sleeping? My bed is always open.”

She slaps a warm, damp piece of cloth over his cut cheek, and he yelps, assaulted by a strange, sweet antiseptic smell. “Ow! That _ stings_―.”

“I had Manuela prepare this poultice for you. To treat your cut so it doesn’t scar.”

He holds the cloth in place after she removes her hand, grimacing from the hot pain prickling in his cheek. It does not burn so much as his earlier humiliation does, and he sulks, eyes downcast. “Thanks. I must have looked so lame earlier. Sorry to disappoint after you went through the trouble of training me.”

“You weren’t lame. You held up your own very well.”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it. He utterly wiped the floor with me.”

“So? You lost once. Are you going to give up? With more training, you’ll definitely put up a better fight next time.”

“If there is a next time. I’m not _ that _ masochistic.” He sighs, irritated. “Let’s just stick to sword training with you, or anyone else that _ isn’t _Felix.”

“If that’s what you want.” 

Huh. She relented so quickly, and without bite, too. He expected her to keep pushing him, expressing confidence in his strength. That’s how his parents preferred to raise him, at any rate, brushing off his sensitivities. But she actually listens to him. He decides to probe her, curious.

“You sure? You don’t think I’d learn faster if I kept getting my ass handed to me? You know, suffering builds character and all that jazz.”

“I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do. If the end result is the same, I don’t care how you go about learning. You know your limits better than I do. I’m here to see you improve, not give you a hard time.”

“That’s such a teacher thing to say.” He chuckles, warmed by her words.

“Well, I am a teacher.”

Good point. Sometimes he forgets. He drops his hand with a sigh, tempted to scratch his itchy cheek, feeling achy all over. He experienced too many reminders of his weaknesses for one day, and as much as he appreciated her guidance, he just wants the day to be over. “...Thanks. I really do mean it. But don’t think I’m satisfied at my current level. Just you wait, I’ll get stronger in no time.” He grins, hoping to bolster his own confidence.

This seems to convince her, because her impassive face softens. “I’ll be waiting for that day.”


	6. 05/24 - Harpstring Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After three long weeks of studying Crests on her own, hoping to feel closer to her students, Bilyana finally decides to ask Claude for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm at the point where I've written stuff ahead of time and I'm too impatient to leave them sitting in my Docs. XD And then I remembered that AO3 has a beautiful, simple system of adding/organizing chapters, right down to the publication date. Although this chapter exceeds eight chapters worth of material, I can always insert the rest later, pushing this one forward. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

** _05/24 - Evening // Harpstring Moon_ **

“So there are ten crests of the Elites, and they are based on the heroes who fought alongside Seiros during the War of the Heroes. A thousand years ago, they fought against the Fell King Nemesis and won.

“This is Blaiddyd.” Claude points on the graph, leading her eyes to study the sharp, intricate lines as he traces them with his fingertip. “This is Dimitri’s Crest. It belongs to the Faerghus royal family. It’s a crest known for its martial power, said to enhance the bearer's true strength. I also heard that family’s infamous for breaking things. Can you imagine their bleeding treasury? Good thing they can afford the repair costs.” He chuckles at his own joke and although Bilyana fails to understand the humor, she looks to him warmly, amused by his insatiable desire to jest. 

“The Blaiddyd crest stone is associated with the Grim Dragon. Can you see it? The short, sharp lines look like a gaping beast’s maw.”

“Or a violent impact. It looks dangerous.”

“See, you’re getting it. Now this one is the Crest of Charon. It’s associated with the Lightning Dragon. This one’s easy. The Crest looks like a pillar of lightning. One of the most renowned Knights of Seiros wields the legendary Relic Thunderbrand, which requires a bearer of Crest Charon to wield it. Daphnel belongs to both the Daphnel and Galatea house, with the latter house having splintered off from the former to join the Holy Kingdom. Ingrid is a Daphnel and she’s got the fiery temper to match. The crest stone belongs to the Flame Dragon. See, doesn’t it look like a roaring fire?”

Bilyana nods, smoothing her hand over the wide, sweeping strokes. They almost seem to flare beneath her fingertips, the black ink flickering in the wayward light of the candle flame. Sothis floats behind them, her chin propped on her palms, looking like a feline lounging in her favorite spot― or Hilda’s blank face of feigned focus during one of her longer lectures on war tactics. Claude’s voice sounds so close, low and pleasant as they lounge on her silver carpet, reclined against the edge of her bed. The part of her where their bodies connect seems to melt into his side, savoring his warmth. Claude had forgone his long black coat, unzipping it to free his arms, leaving it to hang on his shoulders, citing the warm spring night as the reason. She thought coats were meant to insulate one’s body heat, yet she feels it pouring out of him, suffusing the air surrounding her in his scent. 

He smells... sweet, like the grass he likes to roll around in outside Garreg Mach, practicing his jumps and arrow shots. It’s soothing, earthy… reminding her of the morning after she saved him from bandits, how they bonded over sparing their quarry. His warmth, his tenderness lulls her to sleep, and she nestles to his shoulder, allowing her eyes to drift shut. Bilyana knows she should be paying attention to the list of houses founded by the Ten Elites and their current descendants who now carry their blood, but the sound of his smooth voice does not help. She can’t remember the last time she felt this relaxed. Like lounging in the hearth of a homestead, basking in the heat of a kindled fireplace.

“And this crest is affiliated with my name, Riegan. It’s crest stone is the Star Dragon. C’mon, Teach, am I boring you already? This is the best part!”

Bilyana wills herself to open her eyes, focusing on the page that blurs back into focus. Claude lifts his palm face up, willing the golden light of his crest to form within the space of his hand. She blinks, entranced. “It looks like a crescent moon. Why is the dragon a star?”

“I don’t know. I don’t make the rules. But my mother always told me I was born a lucky star.” He winks, tilting his head to gaze upon his crest alongside her. “It would’ve made more sense if my crest was a sun instead, since astrologists classify the sun as a star. As for the moon… I don’t know. It could be a floating rock for all we know.”

“The sun is a star?” She lifts her head from her shoulder to peer up at him. “That explains it, then…”

Their eyes connect, and he drops his hand, allowing the crest to vanish into thin air. “Enlighten me, Teach. It’s cruel to leave a man hanging.”

“You’re like the sun, shining so brightly… and the space around you always feels so warm and welcoming. You draw people in, blinding them at times.” Heat radiates from his cheeks, burning them a shade darker than his tan skin, and she wonders why he won’t stop staring until he averts his eyes, clearing his throat.

“You know, the reason why my crest might be a moon is because it takes its light from the sun. Even when it’s nightfall and you can’t see the sun, the moon shines because its surface reflects light from the sun.”

“Really?” 

“Yep! How else?”

She stares, amazed by his knowledge. “Where did you learn that?"

“By reading, dear Teach. And this is the moment where I officially graduate, because the humble pupil has surpassed the master.” 

He grins, and she hums, acquiescing to his humor. “Maybe so. You taught me many things today.” Tired of holding her head up, she lowers it back down on his shoulder, nestling to the space of his arm, stroking his bicep.

“Well…” He lets that one syllable trail off, distracted. “You failed for falling asleep on me.”

“I didn’t fall asleep. I was…” She sighs, too tired to try at proper sarcasm. It takes too much energy to be half as witty as him. “Relaxing.”

“Yes, you did, and I can prove it. Who possesses the Crest of Gloucester?”

“Lorenz.”

“And Gautier?”

“Sylvain.”

“Dominic?”

“...Felix?”

“That’s Annette. Unless you’re expecting Felix to marry into her house, which I can’t deny would be hilarious and cute―.”

“You win, now shut up.”

He chuckles. “Rude.”

“And you talk too much.”

“How dare you. My voice is a blessing upon this earth.”

She deigns not to answer, warmed by his teasing voice, sensing a soft undercurrent of affection in his quiet lilt. She can’t think of how to describe it, only in that she likes it. Yearning to see the light of his crest again, it brings to mind her own. She lifts her hand and calls upon the mysterious symbol, surprised to witness it bleed silver.

“...is that your Crest? What’s it called?”

“I don’t know. I had Hanneman read my crest through his analyzer, but he did not recognize it. I never knew I had a crest until just recently...” She thought it strange she can conjure the complete pattern when the analyzer could only pick up a fractured image. It looks like a flame, in a shape different from the Daphnel Crest. She does not know which Elite or Saint this crest hails from, let alone its Dragonstone, only in that it possesses the power to heal, quick to regenerate her wounds.

“Oh? I’ve never seen that Crest before. You probably always had it and never noticed it before.”

She cannot deny his logic, but there lies more to the story she hesitates to reveal. It awoke the night she met Claude, Dimitri, and Edelgard. The same night she dreamt of a strange fey child and a distant war. Similar to her father, Claude likes to put no stock in the Church or the Goddess. Unlike her well-meaning father, curiosity stokes his baser impulses. If she chooses to confide in him, who knows how he will react, what he will do with that information. Will he believe her, or will he scheme to poke his nose where it does not belong? 

She wonders what her father meant when he said not to trust Rhea…

** _"I don't mind you settling into your life here, but don't let your guard down. Ever."_ **

_ Who can I trust? _

She allows her Crest to dissipate and drops her left hand, only for Claude to catch it in his own. He twines their fingers as soon as their palms connect, and she blinks up at him, startled by the touch of his lips brushing her knuckles, the sight of his guileful grin.

“What? Your hand looked lonely.”

Bilyana blinks, peering at their conjoined hands. Did it? She does not feel any different. Only sleepier. Confused. Wary. Out of her element. Maybe her body language projected another story entirely and he wanted to reach out to her. Knowing Claude and his insatiable curiosity, though, he probably wanted to elicit a reaction out of her like he always does, mystified by her impassivity. Why are people so fascinated by her?

Rhea spun her strings to keep Bilyana in the monastery, entangling her in a job outside her area of expertise (ignoring all protocol and prerequisites). Seteth investigated her in secret, distrustful of her oblique memory. Edelgard coveted her strength as if she herself possessed none. Dimitri seeks her counsel despite the warmth and kindness of his loyalist companions. Sylvain harbored deep-seated resentment for his crest, envious of her blissful ignorance. She lived her whole life never aware she carried a Crest. Wasn’t Claude the same, being a secret child of the Riegan household?

“...Were _you_ lonely?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Me?”

“I heard… you came from another country. Since Crests only exist in Fódlan, I was wondering if you felt like you were the only one in the world.”

“...Intrigued by me, Teach?” 

He had been slow to retort, stunned by her blunt curiosity, and now he releases her hand to hug his knee to his chest― casually drawing a line. Although eager to hound others for their secrets, he acts so quick to safeguard his own. Bilyana finds that ironic and oddly endearing.

“Didn’t you say we ought to learn more about each other, little by little?”

“Touché. I did say that. You win this one, Teach.”

She peers up at him, studying his face. It’s that smile again, the one that never reaches his eyes. Many of the noble children here are eager to talk about themselves, whether it be their pride or burdens over carrying a family name. Their stylized childhoods and exceptional upbringing define them, and so they are eager to confide in their ignorant professor for her opinion and guidance, since they find her so perspective refreshing.

...at least, that’s what Hanneman told her after she expressed confusion over her sudden popularity. Yet Claude keeps his heart close to his chest. Some things are just too personable to talk about, she reasons, and he does not feel comfortable to share. For that reason alone, she chooses not to reciprocate his snooping― even if he does deserve it.

“Well…” He sighs, breaking the long stretch of silence. “It’s gotten late. I’m way past my curfew.”

Although disappointed from the loss of heat, she acquiesces, allowing him to pull away and rise to his feet, stretching his stiff limbs. She stands as well, slow to rise, woozy from the sudden rush of blood traveling down from her head. In the next moment, creaking springs echo in the air, and she turns to find Claude flopped on her bed, burrowing his face in her pillow, looking like the most comfortable man in the world.

“G’night.”

Bilyana quirks an eyebrow. He must be feeling too lazy or tired to walk all the way back to his room on the second floor. She sees no harm in letting him crash here for the night. At least this way, she can ensure he wakes up tomorrow on time for breakfast before they head out for the seminar. Bilyana faces forward, stepping out of her leggings to slip on a pair of shorts, before shedding her blouse, content with her current undershirt as she combs through her messy, cropped hair, contemplating her lesson plan for the next week.

She hears him rustling around until his hushed panic echoes in the quiet. “Teach, what’re you doing?”

Confused, she turns around, fixing him a blank stare. “You don’t expect me to sleep naked, do you?”

“What― no, I mean― would you??”

“With you here?” She takes a moment to consider it, unsure. “It _ is _hot, but… I don’t know…”

“...something tells me we’re not on the same page here.”

She narrows her eyes, annoyed. “I thought you wanted to sleep, so I was getting ready.” 

“You thought I was serious? I was just joking―.”

“Then what are you still doing here?”

“Argh! Teach, you’re so dense!”

“Shh. Dedue is sleeping.”

She can see the gears shifting in his head and dreads his thought process.

True to form, he smiles smoother than silk, his flustered panic forgotten. “Are you scared he’s going to find out?”

She smacks him with her pillow, hoping to wipe the smug look from his face. “I’m worried he won’t get any sleep. Be considerate. Now strip out of your pants.” 

"Wow, so demanding―oof!"

She smacks his face again, annoyed by his sarcastic, flirtatious lilt. He nearly throws her off balance by snatching the pillow, thwacking her square in the face. Claude blinks, bursting into laughter at her rare expression of stunned surprise, holding fast to the pillow she attempts to steal back. Now he stands on her bed to gain better leverage, both engaging in a vicious tug of war until he wrenches his arms back to wrest free, slipping backwards.

"Uwoa― _ Ow! _" He groans in pain, rubbing the back of his head where he hit the wall, blindsided by the repeated smack of her pillow. "Ack! Mercy! I yield―!"

_ I think you're killing him, _ Sothis floats around to peer down at the spectacle. _ Pity. I liked this child. _

_ Don't worry. He's too annoying to die. _

Bilyana stops at long last to breathe, flushed from exertion. He holds his arms up in surrender, beguiling her into a false sense of security, before stealing the pillow, exploiting the opportunity to smack her face. Only once, because she glares, intimidating him.

"Really?"

"Don't deny it. You were enjoying yourself."

She shoves the pillow in his face, debating whether to suffocate him.

Sensing his chest and stomach shake, she lifts the pillow, concerned, confused to find him giggling, tears of mirth forming in the corners of his eyes. _ Now look at what you've done. You broke him. _Bilyana ignores her, fascinated by his open, vulnerable expression.

"Goddess, you're so funny…" He wheezes, trying to catch his breath. She must have cut too much oxygen from his brain, because now he won't stop _ giggling _. Before she can prod him, he rolls them over so he can climb off her bed, startling her with his agileness. "What've you got to wear around here?"

She sits up and stares after him, surprised by his casual ease as he rummages through her bureau cabinet, picking the bottom most drawer first. Has he snuck into her room before? He seemed to know exactly where she kept her legwear. Pulling out a pair of trousers she prefers to wear for training, he stands to twirl around, displaying one in front of him.

"What do you think? Reckon I'll fit?"

"I don't know. You can try. They're made of stretchy material."

He chuckles. "Didn't even bat an eye. You're a tough nut to crack, Teach."

So he's been testing his boundaries around her, actively seeking buttons to push. Does her lack of emotion warrant that much fascination? In fact, she finds him a character worthier of study. When she thought she figured him out, she learns something new about him. She had not realized she had been staring off into space until his voice rips her out of her reverie. 

"I know I've said I like the attention, but geez, give me a man some privacy. You're making me blush here." 

She half expected him to broadcast his body to evoke a reaction out of her like Sylvain, but instead he acts coy. Curious. Or maybe he teases her because she's a woman. He does not need to take her nonexistent reservations into account. After all, she's seen the male body plenty of times before. A naked chest doesn't phase her in the least, nor hairy legs or phallic loins. Constantly on the road with a band of older men, propriety was a luxury she couldn’t afford. A little part of her wonders how much body hair he developed so far, if he developed any at all. Some of these students are still so young, they must be smoother than a baby's bottom. 

He turns away so his back faces her, betraying his coy smile at face value. 

Oh. She blinks. So he doesn't want her to see. Case in point, he stands there, waiting for her to look away, fingers twitching at the hem of his shirt. 

"...what?"

"You're _ shy_."

"Now that's crazy! Where'd you get that idea?" 

"Then you're going to sleep in your uniform?" She quirks an eyebrow, shifting to lie on her side, chin propped on her hand.

He clears his throat. "No. It's too warm for that. Just… give me a minute."

"A minute? No wonder you're late to seminars, if you're always taking this long to dress."

"Look, you wouldn’t understand. My body is a sacred thing, okay? I don't let just anyone feast their hungry gaze upon me."

"Who's hungry? The girls in our class?"

"Among many others. Like you. I knew you were hiding a wily side."

"I'm not hungry. I'm waiting. I may be a light sleeper, but I still like to sleep. And so do you." She decides to spare him, afraid he will combust from mortification. "If you're going to be like that, then I suppose I should let the maiden undress in privacy..." She turns to lie on her opposite side, coming face to face with Sothis's sly smile.

_ You're teasing him. _

_ It's actually kind of fun. I can see why Claude does it so much. _

Sothis hums in amusement._ He seems to be rubbing off on you. I like this. _

_ And you haven't? I think between the two of you, it's inevitable. _

Claude dowses the candle flame, blanketing the room in darkness, and before she can turn to allow him room, she senses the air shift around her, indicating his leap to steal the spot Sothis occupies, disgruntling the disembodied spirit to float away. 

_ Rude! Well, since you’re retiring, I shall do so as well… _ Sothis yawns, vanishing into the confines of her mind, but not before her sly voice echoes some undesirable parting words. _ Goodnight, children. Don’t be swayed by your baser impulses and wake up regretting it~ If I’m feeling merciful, I might even let you rewind time. Fu fu fu~ _

Bilyana wishes Sothis had a physical body so she could punish her for her cruel jests. _ As if I would take advantage of a student… Really? They would be too afraid to resist me. _

"So… it’s really okay for me to be here? You don’t mind?”

His voice snaps her out of her daze, and she blinks, unable to discern him through the dark just yet. “Why would I mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know… I could do something absolutely shallow or lecherous in your sleep.”

“Only if you want a death wish. I can easily overpower you and you know this.”

“For a second, you had my heart racing that perhaps you trusted me enough to be vulnerable, but now I see it was your unfailing confidence in your own ability to kill me. Nice to know you don’t see me as a threat, let alone a man.”

“I don’t understand you.” She exhales, rolling her eyes. “I trust you not to be stupid.”

He chuckles, clutching the pillow to his face. "The feeling is mutual. There’s never a boring moment with you, Teach."

Silence. She wonders idly what must be going through his mind. And then she senses him move, pushing the pillow towards her, as if just remembering he had been monopolizing it. “Sorry. Do you want the pillow?”

“There’s only one, so it can’t be helped.” She shrugs. “You keep it. I can sleep fine without it.”

“Now you’re making me feel bad. Let's share it."

"It's too puffy. I prefer pillows flat."

"Like my rugged chest?"

"No. Because rugged is not flat. Now go to sleep."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then you'll be too tired for your training tomorrow."

"I could sleep in to make up for it."

She sighs. "Do you have a response for everything?"

"Maaaybeeee~." He chuckles, his bright grin cutting through the dark. "I'm too excited to fall asleep. After all, it's not everyday I get to sleep next to my darling professor. Even better, I might get to wake up to the sight of your beautiful face first thing in the morning."

She blinks. He called her beautiful in the same vein as Sylvain with every new girl of the week. She wonders how genuine his compliments really are. He acts friendly and flirtatious with every girl she sees him with, even extending that same courtesy to men. Although Bilyana struggles to pinpoint his sexual orientation, she considers the fact he must choose a woman to produce heirs as expected of his household name. If she were to determine the one closest to him, his potential girlfriend and future wife… 

"I'm surprised you're not afraid of what Hilda will think."

He pauses. "What? Hilda?"

"You're sleeping with another woman, even though it's innocent."

"Oh! Haha, no, we're not like that. We're just friends. Besides, I'm not her type at all."

She quirks an eyebrow, curious at his choice of words. "And she's yours?"

"Ah. Well, sixteen-year-old me might have been smitten once upon a time, ill-equipped to resist the charms of noble women, but _ I _am no sucker for the ladies. Sometimes the sweetest flowers can hide the most dangerous poison. Now Hilda, I love her, but I know better than to let her string me along."

"You feel strongly for her."

"It may not look it, but I trust her more than anyone."

"I'm glad. I'm a little envious…"

"Don't worry, Lya. You're on the path to stealing my heart."

"It's not that." She brushes off his blithe remark, accustomed to his easy jests. "You have a companion, someone you can call your best friend. I've only ever had my father. Everyone else I met, I categorized them as either allies or hostiles. Even though we are technically teacher and student… would you consider me someone worthy to be your friend someday?"

"What? Of course! It's not a matter of being worthy or not― You just are!"

She peers into his eyes, how they glitter in the dark like a pair of twin crescent moons. "...really?"

"Yeah. Although trust is another thing entirely."

"That's something you shouldn't be saying to your future prospective friend."

"I'm just being honest with you."

"I know." She closes her eyes, content, basking in the warmth he radiates. How can a single person exude so much body heat? It’s impossible, but somehow he exists. Without needing a blanket, she can fall asleep in his arms instead. Scooting into the space of his chest, she snuggles to his collarbone, feeling his chin tickle the top of her head. She senses him tense, probably startled by her proximity. 

"That's why I like you. You don’t easily trust, but you're protective of your friends. You strike a really good balance."

"When you say things like that…"

"Hm?"

"...nothing." He shrugs, the first motion to break the tension in his body. 

In the peaceful silence that stretches between them, the call to sleep lulling her deeper, Bilyana senses his arm move, fidgeting at times to broadcast his indecisive intent, before sliding around her waist, settling there. His fingertips twitch over the skin exposed between her undershirt and shorts, and she squirms, annoyed by the acute trail of heat left by his touch.

"Stop. That tickles."

He stills. She sighs in relief. _ Now maybe I can fall asleep― _

A foreign, high-pitched sound escapes her throat the moment his hand gropes her side, followed by an undignified spasm that sends her fist hurtling into his shoulder. He grunts, brushing off the blow that will most likely bruise come morning, but she shoots upright to clutch at her side, bewildered. 

_ What was _ that_?? Did I make that sound? _

"You're ticklish." He whispers in pure, evil delight, awed by the discovery.

"_Claude_. Don't―"

~

Dedue rises in bed, alerted by a high-pitched squeaking sound. He cranes his ears to listen, disconcerted by the sudden silence. It sounded like a mouse. Could it be crawling somewhere in between the walls? He sighs, lying back down in his bed, drawing the blanket closer over his shoulder. Tomorrow, he shall bring some cheese to lure the poor thing out. Maybe he can help it find a home in the greenhouse, away from the cats.

Not even a minute passes, and he hears it again_― _a squeal that drags on in broken pain, followed by suspicious sounds of a struggle.

Dedue shoots up in concern. It's the Professor. She must be having a nightmare, or worse_―_

Throwing the blanket aside, he jumps out of bed and gropes for his candle in the dark, lighting the match quick before exiting his room. He forgets to knock, seized by urgency to swing the door open_― _only to stand there frozen in shock. He finds Bilyana straddling someone on her bed, her dark hair draped over their face, her hands locking their wrists. Their harsh breathing echoes in the quiet, alluding to physical exertion. 

"...o-okay, _ okay… _I give up… please stop hitting me…"

And that someone sounds like _Claude_.

"Can I trust you to behave?"

"Y-Yes, I'll…" He swallows, wheezing. "I'll do anything you say…"

"...That's a good boy."

Closing the door shut with a quiet, gentle _ click_, Dedue returns to his room and retreats into his covers, resolving to sleep and banish the wicked image from his memory.

~

Bilyana whips her head up, looking over her shoulder. "Did you hear that?"

"What?" He gasps out, breathless, struggling to recollect himself. "The sounds of your abuse?"

"...Hm." She relaxes after a long moment, distracted. _ I could have sworn I sensed a presence… _ In a flurry of movement too swift for her to react, Claude flips them over so he ends up straddling her, snatching her wrists to lock them above her head. She glares up at him, frustrated by his cheeky grin that bleeds through the dark. "You will regret that."

"Are you sure about that? I have the high gr― ow!" 

She headbutts him first, disorienting him long enough to loosen his grip, and then hooks one leg around the back of his thigh, throwing all her weight into the throw so she rolls them over, trapping him beneath her after they tumble off her bed. He groans in pain, rubbing his forehead, stiffening under the power of her menacing aura. "Please be gentle with me."

Corporal punishment will not do. No, she shall reciprocate his mischievous intent.

Shoving her hands beneath his shirt, she feels him flinch, anticipating her strike, until he stills, curious by the feel of her hands on his sides. "...What're you doing? I'm not ticklish."

She scowls, disappointed. This will not deter her. After all, he must be ticklish somewhere…

"Nope. Nope. Nuh-uh. H-Hey…" He giggles, squirming a little, not from torturous delight or breathless agony, but from pure giddiness, amused by her wandering, persistent touches. "You're so handsy, I love it." She almost gives up, feeling silly, until her hands reach higher, brushing the lower area of his armpits. He jerks, as if struck by lightning. They freeze, one seized by fear and the other by smug triumph._ There_.

"Wait, no― please― ACK! NOOO! LYA, P-PLEASE, I CAN'T―!" 

Someone comes bursting through her door, and Ashe and Ignatz tumble inside, candlelight illuminating their fear-stricken faces. Raphael lumbers in after them, peering over their heads.

"Is everything alright? We heard cries for help!"

"Professor! Are you― oh…" Ignatz sighs, relieved. "It's just Claude. False alarm."

"Ooh, were you two wrestling? Looks like fun! I call winner!"

"Boys…" Bilyana straightens, dusting off her chafed knees to face them. "It's past curfew."

"Then what is Claude doing here? Er, is he still alive?"

"Don't mind him. I was reprimanding him."

"My stomach… i-it hurts…"

"You all go back to your rooms. I'll be escorting Claude shortly."

"Yes, ma'am." 

They salute and nod in unison, amused by the pitiful sight, if not morbidly curious of her corporal punishment. _ I'll leave it to their imagination. _Once she sees each of them retired to their rooms, she closes her bedroom door and faces the lump coalescing into her carpet. With a sigh, she trudges over and lifts him by the arm, shoving him towards her bed. "C'mon, I know you're not hurt. Are you ready for bed now?"

He inhales, his voice sore. "I-I'm afraid."

"Poor baby." She sits on the edge to rub his head, amused by his dramatic display.

He sniffs, feigning invisible tears. "You're so abusive… Why is everyone so mean to me?"

"Shush." She settles into place beside him, nestling to his back, lulled by his solid, firm warmth. "You're too much sometimes."

And then his fear evaporates into insolent glee. "But that's why you love me."

She sighs. Always the last, damn word.


	7. 08/10 - Verdant Rain Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They parted on an awkward note, even though she went to see him off at the gate. He brushed her aside, resolving to uncover her secrets when he returned. Maybe he could break into her room and check out the sword for himself. The relic lacks a crest stone, and yet her crest happens to be compatible with it. How...? 
> 
> And yet, despite the week they spent apart where Claude dreaded their reunion, brainstorming ideas on how to break the ice, Bilyana sought him out the moment she caught wind of his return.
> 
> This woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my lack of updates. I've embarked on the Maddening pilgrimage of playing Golden Deers without NG+. Pray for me. XD
> 
> Also, I'm in the mood for fluff. Have some fluff.

** _08/10 - Afternoon // Verdant Rain Moon_ **

Bilyana finds him exactly where Lorenz said he would be, passed out on his bed. Claude sleeps face up with his stomach exposed, mouth parted in a slight drool. She sighs with a ghost of a smile and sets the teapot and tray of sweets down on his study (moving the hazardous pile of books aside first to make room) before walking over to sit by his side, her weight doing little to disturb him. When he shivers from the sudden draft that blows in through his open window, she pulls the blanket up, intending to cover him only to stop short. 

Black ink and white, faded skin peeks below the bunched hem of his shirt, and she scoots closer, curious. Lifting his shirt, she admires the tattoo that curls around the mark of a long-healed scar, the handiwork fresh. Petra mentioned she had tattoos on her body that represented her homeland. Considering how often those two spent time together, training and studying, swapping phrases in their native tongue, it wouldn’t surprise her if Petra had been the tattooist. The tattoo itself took on the shape of a serpentine dragon devouring its own tail. Such a strange symbol… 

Her fingers curl around his side, contemplating his scar. He twitches, but does not stir, murmuring nondescript words. It must have been a stab wound once, going by the burst of white tendrils from the point of entry. A poisoned dagger. Time had been kind, for she had seen poisoned wounds heal worse. Even so…

_ Who hurt you? _

She pulls his shirt down to cover his abdomen, disturbed by her discovery. Fixing her gaze upon his guileless face, calm sweeps over her in an instant and she sighs, perplexed by the sudden heat blooming in her chest. She reaches out to wipe the faint drool off his cheek and closes his mouth shut with a gentle tap to his chin.

Claude stirs again, eyebrow twitching in annoyance.

“Mrm… _ Maman, be'eest _…” 

She stills. Although she does not understand the words, she knows basic Almyran enough to glean his petulant demand. _ Mom, quit it. _Of course Claude would be a brat to his own mother. Why does she find that so endearing? She lingers to study his face, enjoying the rare sight of him unguarded. Her fingers twitch, restless, and before she can stop herself, she touches his cheek, surprised to find how smooth it feels. He must not have grown facial hair, yet, despite his growing sideburns. Even a clean shaven jaw would display some scruff halfway through the day. Her fingers rise to trace his eyebrow, hoping to smooth the furrow of his brow. When his unruly bangs tickle her knuckles, she combs his hair out of his face, his thick, tangly locks windswept by the long horseback ride.

Dropping her hand to his cheek again, she softens.

_ He’s so beautiful. _

That one word echoes in her mind, rekindling the distant memory. 

Every time Jeralt returned from one of his longer contracts that she had been too young and inexperienced to tag along, stuck at the inn or campsite with one of his men to supervise her weapon training, he always stopped by her bedside every night to brush her face and kiss her head. She always pretended to sleep in order to bask in his rare affection longer. Was this is how her father felt? Anxious and lonely, restless from the distance, counting the days until he could see her again. Hugging her whenever she awoke, nuzzling her hair, he always called her “my beautiful baby girl.”

No matter the mood they parted with― the arguments and disagreements prevalent in her younger adolescence, the bitter resignation that he might fail his assignment― whatever negative energy that brewed between them would always evaporate by the time they reunited. Because those fights had never been too significant to cling to, simply serving as proof that they were two different people who learned to function as one unit.

She sensed a similar bond with Claude.

Despite his insufferable attempts to crack at her “mystery,” pestering her about her secret bloodline and her ability to wield the Sword of the Creator, his disbelief over her sheltered lifestyle and his blatant distrust of her conveniently vague answers, she appreciates his enthusiasm to understand her. She barely understands herself, and that frightens her. “Byleth the Ashen Demon” frightens everyone who deigns to look upon her, discouraging any desire to approach, but not him, and that in turn ignites her own curiosity. She treasures this boy who considers it a challenge to befriend her, and she leans forward to kiss his forehead, the only gesture of affection she knows.

_ He’s not a child for you to coddle. _Sothis seizes the opportunity to chastise her, disapproval coloring her sharp tone. _ He’s a young man, albeit in human years... but clearly he does not need a mother. Although you are all like infants to me, you and your students are close to the same mortal age. Someday, he will grow into a full-fledged man and your affection won’t look so innocent then. What will you do when he misunderstands and expects more? _

_ Of course I know that. _ She’s not delusional to think she’s fulfilling a nonexistent void in his life. As Bilyana pulls back to gaze upon his face once more, she wonders for the first time if the same can be said for herself. Would this be considered “attraction” according to Manuela’s words? Thoughts of him creep into her mind unbidden, in the most inconvenient of moments. Her eyes always seek his smile, even though he’s always smiling. She stares at his lips now, admiring how they pucker in his sleep, pink and full, reminiscing how soft they felt on her hand whenever he teased her.

Stricken by the direction of her own thoughts, she stands to prepare the pot, hoping the smell of hot tea will wake him up. She picked out a peculiar batch from the eastern merchant, and a rather pricey one at that. Since Claude enjoyed the exotic spices she gave him, maybe he might like this one as well. 

~

At first Claude shivered from the draft blowing in from his open window, having been too lazy to close it in his mad rush to collapse in the comfort of his bed, but soon the warmth of a blanket wraps around him followed by his mother’s quiet affection. She always checked in on him during the day, touching his body in search of scrapes and bruises from his latest scuffle outside. Although her coddling usually annoys him, he acquiesced out of exhaustion, the way she caresses his face his greatest weakness. He turns on his side and sighs, content, sensing her rise to bustle around.

A minute later, he inhales, warmed by the scent of pine needles.

Peeling his eyes open, Claude watches her brew tea at his desk, her back facing him. Strange. Her mother never wears black, and she prefers saris over tight leggings any day. Claude blinks, confused, rising in bed to survey his surroundings, which feels too small, too sparse, lacking the opulence and exotic fabrics that decorate his room. Wait, this isn’t―

“You’re awake.” Bilyana twists around to regard him with her usual cool expression, amusement flitting in her blue gaze.

Claude stares, captivated by how she seems to glow in the soft sunlight filtering through his high window. Clearing his throat, he fails to compose himself fast enough. “T-Teach?” He croaks out, speechless when she snatches a stool from behind his bed to place it in front of him. A second later, she places two cups of brown tea on top of it, treating it like a makeshift table.

“Sorry it’s not fancy.” She walks over with a tray of pastries in hand, laying it on the bed between them after she seats herself. “But I didn’t feel like being around other people.” 

He continues to stare, stunned by the private sentiment. She wanted to be alone with him. After he had acted like a brat right before his departure, relentless in his pursuit to interrogate her about her crest, her relic, her secret bloodline― Everything. He couldn't believe any of her words at face value. No person is that naive and ignorant. He thought riling her would push her to crack and reveal something, _anything_ that hinted at her lies, but she remained firm and consistent. It maddened him that he almost fell for her innocent act.

They parted on an awkward note, even though she went to see him off at the gate. He brushed her aside, resolving to uncover her secrets when he returned. Maybe he could break into her room and check out the sword for himself. The relic lacks a crest stone, and yet her crest happens to be compatible with it. How...? And yet, despite the week they spent apart where Claude dreaded their reunion, brainstorming ideas on how to break the ice, Bilyana sought him out the moment she caught wind of his return.

This woman.

Regardless of his misgivings, her absence chilled him worse than the unspoken hostility of his grandfather's fellow councilmen. Bilyana made him too comfortable, too careless in his own skin, and he ended making the same mistakes as he did when he first arrived in Fódlan. He spoke out of turn. His opinion had come off too blunt, a shadow of her edged steel. His jests were _too provocative, too insensitive, too salacious― _everyone had something to say about how he could improve his behavior. It enraged him, made him feel unwanted and inadequate. His grandfather exercised silence because he could not afford to express partiality as Lord Riegan, and Claude resented his position more than the man himself. At least his parents stood up for him, fearless in the face of others' animosity. Here in Fódlan, he faces the threat of conformity.

He counted the days where he could return to the monastery and play at being a lordling alongside his peers. At least the atmosphere made it harder for the authority figures to watch every single head. He missed teasing Ignatz about crushing on the Goddess, missed sharing meals with Petra and Raphael. But most of all, he missed Hilda who would laze around with him. He wanted to pilfer the Almyran crystals from her generous box of trinkets to try and make a charm bracelet for her. She would look beautiful decked out in rubies, emeralds, and amethysts. Recalling how she brushed him off despite his pleas for attention squeezed the knots in his stomach, and he pushed her out of his mind, thinking about Bilyana. Which in turn caused _more _knots to wrangle his stomach, and he gave up, seeking comfort in Lysithea during tea time. Even Lorenz proved somewhat pleasant company, a much more tolerable comparison to his father. 

He grasped for an equilibrium that lied beyond his reach, and Judith's probing questions about his school days weren't helping.

Claude felt homesick, and not for Almyra.

"...what is it?" Bilyana's voice anchors him back to the present, and he blinks.

Lifting the tray to set it aside, Claude removes the only physical barrier between them and leans in close, one arm propped on the bed behind her as he delights in her expression of surprise, wary of his proximity. He grins, she frowns, and then he tackles her in a swift embrace, collapsing on top of her.

“I missed you♡~”

“Claude, stop, you’re― tickling me―.”

“It’s been one whole week. C’mon, let me have this~.”

“The tea is getting cold―.”

“Then warm it up with your fire magic~.”

“_Claude― _!”

~

Hilda meanders down the hallway, passing her bedroom on her way to Claude’s. She had been enjoying tea and raspberry scones with Marianne in the courtyard when Lysithea found them on her way to the library (as per her usual haunt, does that girl ever tire of studying? Not even a couple days’ ride on horseback from Derdriu and back can stop her). Once she learned that everyone returned from the Alliance Roundtable summit, Hilda delayed her visit to see him out of the guilt she felt for ignoring him in the hour before his departure. 

She had been too focused on completing the necklace she promised Raphael for his sister’s birthday, and she _ really _ didn’t feel like riding out all the way to Derdriu for a stuffy, old, boring council meeting with her father and other lords. If Claude felt slighted by her dismissive farewell, he hid it well behind his usual joking facade. But still… she felt bad. It became obvious to her afterwards that he really wanted her to join him. Probably to share the burden of suffering. 

Or perhaps… Her face flares at the thought. He wanted to snatch some private moments with her during the nights they stayed there. Being the heir of a dukedom gave him certain liberties in his own home that he wouldn’t normally have permission to if they were still in the monastery. No one would question the presence of his fiancé in his room, as they are an overly affectionate pair (to the grief of others, such as the old-fashioned nobility, but Duke Riegan seemed amused nonetheless. Claude’s grandfather likes to dote on everything he does, the lucky troll).

Marianne had been the one to pick up on her subtle mood, and she encouraged her to make amends. _ “I think he would really appreciate it... if you showed him how much you missed him. I’m sure he missed you, too. You two could afford to be... a little more honest with each other, I think…” _ Never thought Hilda would see the day meek little Marianne would work up the courage to give _ her _ love advice. It must be a sign.

Approaching the door to his room, she notices it cracked open, noises and laughter echoing from inside. Sounds like Sylvain beat her to the punch and the boys were horsing around. Or Dimitri, if he fell victim to Claude’s latest mischief. 

“Did you miss me?”

Before she can jostle it open and join the fun, her hand freezes over the doorknob.

“The monastery was quiet and peaceful. I was able to get a lot more work done. It felt strange.”

The Professor…? She dares to peek through the sliver of the door, and almost squeals from the sight. Claude traps her in his clingy embrace, nuzzling the space between her neck and shoulder while Bilyana simply lies there in surrender, like a mother cat overwhelmed by her kitten's energy, having long since given up prying him off her. _ They look so cute~ _

“I’ll take that as a yes, then. Just admit it: You were lonely without me."

"You certainly pose a challenge to my productivity." 

"In other words, you were bored."

"Life isn't half as interesting without you in it."

"Aw, thanks, Teach. You really know how to make a guy feel special."

"I'm starting to regret giving you extra attention. It's already inflating your impossible ego."

They're just… bantering on his bed and exchanging significant looks, hands fidgeting in the intimate space between them. It's such a mundane thing, but she knows Claude. He rarely likes to be intimate with anyone. Claude finally relents, his thirst for mischief quenched (at least for the moment), pulling back to face forward and lift the lukewarm teacup to his lips. Bilyana joins him soon after and reheats the teapot with the glow of her hand. Hilda lingers, leaning back against the wall, hoping to glean more blackmail material.

Claude likes Bilyana, like how Raphael likes meat. They're obsessed. But curiosity can't be the true extent of his feelings for her. She had a hunch there lied more beneath his penchant for jests and wit. After all, she rarely felt warmth from his constant smiles. Only when near their professor does the light shine through his eyes. Such as the day of their first mock battle with the other house leaders, how Claude looked at her while they were cooking behind the kitchen counter in the mess hall. How he smiled when she found his leather quiver. How he glows when she tutors him and trains him and instructs him, drinking on her every word. They read books together in the library. They garden in the greenhouse. They shop for groceries in town. He reads a book while she fishes in the morning.

They are always seen together, it would be stranger if one of them confessed not knowing where the other might be.

Instead of jealousy, she feels… resignation. That she couldn't be the one to bring that out in him.

“Hot! Hot hot hot...”

“Be careful.”

“Got too excited…” He chuckles, and then a beat of silence. “Kiss it to make it better?”

A rustle of movement, and Hilda peeks over to watch Bilyana palm his face to turn the other cheek. “I’m your teacher. Be mindful.”

“So that’s where you draw the line, huh." He lifts his cup for another (cautious) sip, peering at her with a sly grin. "Fair enough. Your idea on boundaries are surprisingly flexible. Or are they nonexistent?”

“Of course I have boundaries. But in your case, having boundaries is more troublesome than what it's worth."

"Are you calling me a problematic child?"

"You're all my problematic children. You just happen to be my problematic favorite."

That shuts him up real quick, and Claude blushes, fidgeting with the handle of his teacup. Tongue-tied, reticent Claude proves too entertaining to watch, and Hilda grins, suppressing her giggles long enough for her to dash down the hallway, emerging onto the first floor consumed by tearful mirth. She'll make him a love charm to increase his chances, because Ferdinand, Dimitri, and Sylvain will prove tough competition (she can't count out the Gatekeeper, the dark horse; Bilyana visits him at his post nearly every day. Or Ashe and Dedue whom she spends most time with in the garden and the kitchens).

Claude's got his work cut out for him.


End file.
